


Twinkyempath Anthology

by mresundance



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: ALL THE KINKS, Aftercare, Age Play, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, BDSM, Bisexual Male Character, Bisexuality, Blood, Blood Kink, Bottom Hannibal, Child Abuse, Comfort, Daddy Kink, Dark Will, Dark Will Graham, Domestic, Domestic Fluff, Dubious Morality, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Manipulation, F/M, FTM, Fluff, Genderqueer, Hannibal is a Cannibal, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Intimacy, Jealous Hannibal, M/M, Manipulative Hannibal, Manipulative Will, Manipulative Will Graham, Multi, Multiple Pairings, Multiple Partners, Murder Fantasy, Murder Husbands, Murder Kink, Non-Linear Narrative, Open Relationships, Original Character(s), Other, POV First Person, POV Second Person, Platonic BDSM, Platonic Relationships, Podfic Available, Podfic Welcome, Possessive Behavior, Possessive Hannibal, Possessive Sex, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Power Play, Punishment, Rape Aftermath, Rape Recovery, Rough Sex, Scarred Will, Spanking, Trans Female Character, Trans Male Character, Violence, Will Knows, domestic intimacy, non binary character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-29
Updated: 2016-08-06
Packaged: 2018-02-15 08:00:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 200
Words: 174,965
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2221539
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mresundance/pseuds/mresundance
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Replies originally posted to my Tumblr RP blog, <a href="http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/">twinkyempath</a>. Will Graham is (in his own words) a former die-hard fuck machine, but now just a visually impaired misanthrope. </p><p>This anthology is a collection of those replies, in order of when they were posted. Each reply is a separate chapter, and could be read as a separate fic.</p><p>Later a plot does develop, but again, most chapters can be read as separate works.</p><p>Chapters which were part of a Q and A session in January 2015 are marked by QA in the front.</p><p><a href="http://hannibalblogawards.tumblr.com/post/122671804170/best-will-graham-blog-alwayswillgraham">First Place Best Will Graham Blog</a> and <a href="http://hannibalblogawards.tumblr.com/post/122721745101/best-fanfiction-wwhiskeyandbloodd">Third Place Best Fanfiction</a> in the 2015 Hannibal Blog Awards.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Ideal Penis

**Author's Note:**

> [You can check out some awesome fanart, podfic, and fanmixes for twinkyempath by going here](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/remixes). :D

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asks: Describe your ideal penis for us please.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted [here](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/93710531718/describe-your-ideal-penis-for-us-please).

> **Describe your ideal penis for us please.**

 

That could be a rude question, but I’ll bite, metaphorically speaking.

The ideal penis is soft, like silk. I like gently cupping it in my hands and feeling it begin to stiffen as I stroke it. The ideal penis slides easily into my mouth, still mostly soft but swelling as I circle the head with lips and tongue, and as my tongue traces languid patterns along the underside of the shaft. The ideal penis pulses, the precum acrid, as I part my lips just enough for the thick head. The ideal penis throbs against the back of my throat and while I need to pull off for air, I just really don’t want to. I want the other man to feel my throat working tight and warm around him as I try not to gag. For him, I will not gag, but consume his cock with happy, humming sounds which will reverberate through his beautiful cock and make him shiver. The ideal penis has a beautiful pair of balls for me to rub gently, and then suck, while I listen to the other man’s sharp intake of breath, so unexpected and delightful because he rarely makes such sounds. The ideal penis is hard and leaking as the other man pushes his elegant lubed fingers into my ass and tells me how he’s going to have me. I will take it like a good boy, a beautiful boy, and if it I do, he will make me come, begging and gasping his name. The ideal penis makes me ache because it does fill me (and fills me and fills me), and when he has me each thrust makes my body bleed red and violet and white, a symphony of pleasures that can’t be expressed in words alone, but in the little kisses he lays along my shoulder, in the smell of our bodies and our sweat, the bursts of color and sensation I feel as he rocks and comes inside me, filling me all the more. And I do — gasp his name, and beg — every time as I come.

That, to me, is the ideal penis. I hope that answers your question.


	2. Did You Always Know?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Did you know you were a (and I'm quoting) "cock hungry twink" before you met Hannibal?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted [here](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/93712479803/did-you-know-you-were-a-and-im-quoting-cock-hungry).

> **Did you know you were a (and I'm quoting) "cock hungry twink" before you met Hannibal?**

 

Well, I always kind of  _knew_ I liked guys, and cock. I grew up a little bit everywhere as a kid, moving around a lot, so I didn’t have many friends for long, much less boyfriends.

When I hit puberty I started fantasizing about guys (like  you do). One of the most memorable fantasies I had was about sucking off my current school’s lacrosse team. The  _entire_ team. Yeah. I kind of knew then, but internalized homophobia and denial were a thing, even though my dad was pretty okay with it and supportive. 

What finally sealed it for me was when I was 15 and living in New Orleans for a bit. I had a very close friend who was my age — I’ll call him “John” — and we hung out all the time. I could tell him anything, even about my empathy disorder and the fact I liked guys. John said he wasn’t sure about his sexuality but sometimes guys were nice, yaknow?

Eventually we had hung out for so long that I just started to notice that John was attractive to me in  _that_ way. And one day we were being teenagers and hanging out, doing nothing but lazing around in the backyard. It was really hot, too hot to do anything but curl in the shade and pant. An  _enormous_ grasshopper came out of no-where — it was  _huge,_ bigger than the length of my hand — and John shrieked and tried to stomp on it a few times. It sort of limped away, and John and I stared after it.

"That was huge," I said and noticed how flush John was, and how, suddenly, I had gotten one of those embarrassing surprise teen boners somehow. 

"I know something …  bigger," John said. 

You can laugh all you want because it was ridiculous,. We were kids. 

But it was on a few minutes thereafter that we were in my bedroom, with John’s shorts and underwear at his ankles and my clumsy slobbering mouth all over his dick that I was like  _oh my god I love cock so so much thank you god thank you for dick._

Something like that. 


	3. Top or Bottom?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Are you a top or a bottom?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted [here](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/93728590618/are-you-a-top-or-a-bottom).

> **are you a top or a bottom?**

 

I have admittedly topped in the past and I will in the future, no doubt, and I enjoy it, but there is …  _something_ … about letting another guy have me and dominate me and think he’s totally, utterly in control. 

But then, he’s not the one with the strength to crawl on his hands and knees, ass up, ready and willing and wanting to take what the other man can give, is he?

He’s not the one who gets to feel another man come inside him and  _know_ beyond any doubt that his quick mind and clever body milked an orgasm out of this other man. 

So yes. 


	4. Two Favorite Positions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Do you have a position you find particularly enjoyable? ... or two or three...?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted [here](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/93732014268/do-you-have-a-position-you-find-particularly-enjoyable).

> **Do you have a position you find particularly enjoyable? ... or two or three...?**

 

Two positions come to mind immediately:

  1. Him under me, his cock already thick and throbbing as I bring my lips to it. Just lapping, teasing until I hear him grunt as if to say “get on with it boy”. And then my whole mouth around him quickly, just to see how he reacts. 
  2. Splayed on my back, with him on top, slowly easing his cock into my mouth. Sometimes it’s quite rough too, with him grabbing my hair and thrusting into my mouth, bruising my lips. Sometimes it’s quite gentle, almost tender when I feel his cum wash warm through my mouth, down my throat. 



Either way, it’s deeply satisfying.


	5. Disagreements in the Bedroom

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Have you and Hannibal ever had any disagreements in the bedroom?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted [here](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/93734466893/have-you-and-hannibal-ever-had-any-disagreements-in-the).

> **Have you and Hannibal ever had any disagreements in the bedroom?**

 

Not particularly. 

I am very pliant and will gladly do almost anything he asks. And in return he rewards me. Very handsomely.

The rest I leave to you to imagine for yourselves. I’m happy to give up the details without naming any names, but my relationship with Hannibal is special and I hesitate to discuss it if asked directly. 

Besides, Hannibal would punish me  _terribly_ if I mentioned our last fight in general, much less our last fight about sex. I was feeling bored and mischievous and frankly, I was being a pain in the ass and I purposely spilled some wine on the carpet in the bedroom. I _know_ better but sometimes I just can’t be bothered to resist temptation. 

When he was done speckling me with bruises, he fucked me rather ruthlessly into the carpet. My face in the same spot as the spill of course. I couldn’t sit for a few days without feeling it, and remembering him inside me.


	6. Preparing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Does Hannibal like it better when he prepares you or when you do before sex?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted [here](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/93739613513/does-hannibal-like-it-better-when-he-prepares-you-or).

> **Does Hannibal like it better when he prepares you or when you do before sex?**

 

Since I am already in trouble for answering my last ask in a little more detail than I should have, it won’t hurt (much, and at least not in a way that I won’t enjoy) if I answer this one.  
  
We both like it when I prepare myself. I don’t think I will ever get tired of watching him watch me; of the way his eyes seem to darken when I writhe against my own slick and hard fingers; the way he purses his lips when I moan for him to  _come and fill me with his cock, please, come and fill me, please, I’m such a good boy, please_ ; the noises he makes when I tilt my hips just enough to put pressure in the exact right place and my whole body trembles with pleasure. 

He says he likes seeing me flush, rosy like the dawn in Florence when he was younger. It reminds him of when he was “softer”. He says he likes it when I pleasure myself slowly, so slowly, I’m weak and whimpering and trembling and nearly exhausted but not at all sated by the time he pulls me into his arms and he finally pushes his cock into me. 


	7. Topping Hannibal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How often do you get to top Hannibal? Is it a fight or does he go as willingly and eagerly as you?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted [here](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/93741255518/how-often-do-you-get-to-top-hannibal-is-it-a-fight-or).

> **How often do you get to top Hannibal? Is it a fight or does he go as willingly and eagerly as you?**

 

Often enough! We both enjoy the fact that I mostly bottom. But some nights I come home from work too tired to really “receive”. I don’t feel like myself — my body is this strange, a foreign bag of bones and meat and skin, not my own — and I need something to anchor me. So those nights tend to be Hannibal’s turn to bottom. He does it very gracefully.

Sometimes he gets on his knees and makes a show of rubbing his face against my jeans, mouthing my cock through my clothes as it hardens. More often than not he’ll suck me off while I’m sagged against a wall, or in a chair, his mouth beautiful as it works around me until I finish. When this happens he smiles a very small smile as he looks up at me. I swear he looks at me like I am some rare, incredible piece of art, but he would rarely admit this to me openly. 

Other times he just wordlessly goes up to the bedroom and I find him there, naked on the bed, on his hands and knees, ass up and ready for me to come and fill him. 

And I do. And when his warm body envelopes me, and he cries out my name with little pants and whispers — something he’s never done for anyone else, I think — I always come so hard it almost hurts. 

But when he bottoms it lets me return to myself, into my body, and I can just lay there with him afterwards, feeling the warmth of his body and his breathing, feeling alive and like, well,  _me._


	8. Moresome

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Would you ever, or have you ever, invited a third, or fourth, person to your bed?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted here.

> **Would you ever, or have you ever, invited a third, or fourth, person to your bed?**

 

Oh  _yes._

Both Hannibal and I have invited thirds to our relationship, and a few times a fourth. Sometimes he finds someone, sometimes I find someone, sometimes we both find someone. But it’s really fun when it happens. 

Just a few months ago Hannibal acquired a gentleman just for me. He didn’t really tell me his name or what he did, he just said this man was coming over. He said this man was here to please me and he would love to watch. I was intrigued of course. 

The caveat was Hannibal trussed me up nice and good before this gentleman came over. He also blindfolded me. Basically I never saw this other man, and I barely even moved. I was tied up on the floor, but I could hear the sounds this other man made, feel his touch on my skin, smell him when he was close enough. He kept stroking my sides and telling Hannibal what a good, obedient boy I was, how beautiful I was. He ran his fingers through my hair and stroked my cock until I was rutting against the floor and whining for it. 

Hannibal prepared me until I was  _aching_ and begging, and then the gentleman in question fucked me for awhile. But Hannibal wouldn’t let him come in me, of course. He’d sooner tear the gentleman’s throat out. No, when he was close, Hannibal probably nudged him aside and then I felt Hannibal’s heavy cock sink right down into me. The gentleman wandered off —  to wash himself because I will never suck a dick that has just been in an ass, even if it’s my own ass — before coming back to slide his cock against my lips and into my mouth.  _  
_

Hannibal came inside me, and I came with Hannibal’s hand around my cock, and the gentleman in question came in my mouth.

A good time was had by all, I think. 

Not entirely … certain … what happened to this gentleman though. I sort of …  passed out afterwards from exhaustion and from pleasure. The guy was already gone when I woke up. 


	9. The Smell of Blood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Is there anything absolutely guaranteed to turn you on every time?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted [here](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/93772932213/is-there-anything-absolutely-guaranteed-to-turn-you-on).

[OOC: It might be best to read the first section, in italics, as the answer Will  _would_ give if he felt he could be so honest. The second section is his actual answer.]

* * *

 

>   **Is there anything absolutely guaranteed to turn you on every time?**

 

**Truth:**

_When he comes home and he smells of somebody else’s blood._

_Every time. It makes me rock hard in seconds._

_When he looks at me and his dark eyes are wide and his face seems to part. Between the seams I can actually, finally, see him. The real him._

_Horrifying. Beautiful._

_Every time. I want to get on my hands and knees and beg him to have me. Tear me into pieces with his hands and his mouth._

_When he comes close to me, vibrating triumph, and kisses me with cold, hard lips. Touches me with cool hands._

_Sometimes he has scrapes and bruises when he comes home smelling of blood. Sometimes he has cuts. When he does I get to kiss them and soothe them. He lets me rub ointment into the wounds, his whole body trembling with adrenaline, and then, easing into my touches. Into my arms. My body. As if I am the only solid thing in the world._

_One time he even let me half carry him to bed, even if he is bigger than me. I still know how to leverage my body with his._

_I laid him down and took off all his clothes — neat and pristine though they were brittle with the smell of blood — and then rubbed his whole body and kissed him. The heat came off him in waves, like he was one of those raging, out of control wildfires. For a moment I wanted to bathe in his flames, and let him devour me, turn me to ash and dust. But that feeling subsided. It always does, if I wait long enough. And then it’s just the pair of us, together._

_We aren’t burdened with shared secrets. We are drawn tighter by the threads of shared knowledge. Of knowing the truth._

_I see you, I whisper to him sometimes, when he comes home smelling of blood._

_And he’ll grin, dark and grisly and my whole body tightens with arousal. With knowing. With seeing._

_Yes._

 

**Half-Truth:**

To be honest and cliché, the smell of Hannibal’s aftershave turns me on.

He is very meticulous in the mornings, and when I’m around I like to watch him. He washes his face, and then applies his shaving oil (sandalwood, he tells me, and the smell’s sweet and sharp) before lathering his face. Usually he saves with a plain razor, the snooty version of those disposable plastic ones you buy for a buck at the store. (He hates that I think this is snooty and huffs and puffs about it, but I know him and it’s snooty.) He also has one of those fancy, five hundred dollar plus straight razors that he sometimes uses (and I’ve let him use it on me. It was …  an experience).

Either way watching him shave is interesting, and arousing. The way he bares his neck to the blade as he works, the skin there so thin, so delicate even with yesterday’s stubble. The way the muscles in his arms and shoulders ripple. The way he will look at me in the mirror and smile, a smile so small only I would know it was there.

When he finishes and washes his face, he douses himself in his aftershave. Again, it’s sandalwood, sweet and sharp, cloying the same way fresh blood is.

I know when I describe it like that it probably shouldn’t turn me on, but oh, it does. It does. 


	10. Toys

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Does Hannibal use toys on you sometimes?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted [here](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/93824517718/does-hannibal-use-toys-on-you-sometimes).

> **Does Hannibal use toys on you sometimes?**

 

Do I enjoy a warm, hard shaft in my mouth?

The long answer to this question would be to do an inventory of Hannibal’s sex toy  _menagerie._ But then, Hannibal would be running this blog and writing enormous texts posts where he gloat-wanks about his ridiculously expensive collection of sex toys. (Half of which, I might add, he bought after we started screwing and then properly dating.)

I love that man to sheer, utter exhaustion,  _but_   … let’s say he’s an acquired taste in some ways. 

The cheap and quick version (MY version) is  _yes times a thousand pick a day of the year and you almost certainly would have some kind of sex toy involved._

A sampler, if you will:

  * A few months ago: Hannibal went to a conference [for a week and bought me this](http://www.goodvibes.com/display_product.jhtml?id=11AH05&lref=Cat_catalog70002_cat38074_ALLPRODUCTS_3). He wanted it simply so we could indulge in the pleasure of sex-Skyping. Hannibal jerk himself off while I moaned his name and rode that pulsator like it was his own dick. 
  * Before a fancy dinner party a few weeks ago: I half assed putting on my tie and Hannibal did not approve. I was too tired to really care and told him as much. I said something rude like “this dinner party is stupid anyways and you have like a million” (very adult of me). [So Hannibal wedged a more expensive version of one these in my ass](http://www.goodvibes.com/display_product.jhtml?id=14BF01&lref=Cat_catalog70002_cat33829_ALLPRODUCTS_39) (think real jewels) and I spent most of the evening with it in there, trying to act vaguely sociable. I was sweating. And trying not to come apart and come all over. All I could think about was how I wanted Hannibal to grab my hair and ride me. (He did. Eventually.)
  * Tuesday: Hannibal had me on my back, while he slowly spread me open, bulb by bulb, [with a toy very much like this.](http://www.adameve.com/adult-sex-toys/dildo-sex-toys/sp-emerald-thriller-glass-massager-93594.aspx) He was so, so slow, and so good I didn’t even beg him to speed up, just take his time, meandering through pleasure. 



There are other toys we use that don’t involve penetration (crops, floggers, paddles, cock rings, clamps, handcuffs, vibrators) but this post is really long enough and I promised not to give an entire inventory.


	11. Crappy Advice Interlude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What advice would you give to someone suffering from bottom-shame?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted [here](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/93832945173/what-advice-would-you-give-to-someone-suffering-from).

 

> **What advice would you give to someone suffering from bottom-shame? You seem to have a different, fresh point of view on bottoming.**

 

I don’t consider myself exactly a bastion of “good advice”. I hesitated to even answer this. But talking it over with Hannibal he …  _nudged_ me and insisted that whatever advice I had to give would be perfectly honest and legitimate. (He also bribed me. With fellatio.)

So. Here goes! _  
_

**~~Crappy~~  Advice Interlude**

People tend to think sex is about power. Tops and bottoms. Powerful and powerless.

I tend to think sex is about power, but not in the crude ways we reduce it.

Surrender for me  _can_ be sweet and innocent. But not always. And surrender for me  _can_ mean I’ve let my limbs go limp and my body is weak and willing. But there’s nothing inherently weak in offering myself up, even when I’ve made myself completely exposed and vulnerable.

There’s so much power in that offering, for me. That submission.

The word which forms the root of  _Islam_ means  _to submit to god._ In Islam, you submit to a higher power. Submission makes you closer to god. Not killing and conquest. Not domination and power. But a refusal of power and control.

In ancient Mesopotamia, sex and the divine were one and the same. You couldn’t divide the two. Inanna/Ishtar was a goddess of sexuality and war. Her priestesses and priests worshipped her by having sex in her temples. Even the words which refer to “sex” and “sexual joy” have the same root as the words which signified divinity in ancient Mesopotamia.

With all that I’ve seen, there’s not a lot I can believe in. Certainly not a higher power. But I do find that sexual pleasure is one of the most potent human forces. And I worship rather frequently. I worship by lathing my tongue over warm, pulsing cocks. I worship by parting my ass cheeks and getting fucked until I’m gasping and raw. I worship by moaning as a quick, hot, tongue or fingers push inside me. I worship by stroking soft skin as it swells in my fingers and precum leaks over the head. Every orgasm and every touch and every sound of pleasure that another man milks from me — that I  _give_ to him just as I give him my lips and my hands and my ass and my cock and my quick, living body — that is power. That is as close to the divine as I’m ever going to come.

And how I do like to come. And come.

Bottoming is about yielding. Parting the seams of my flesh so another can enter and together we can share pleasure. We can share a kind of divinity, even.

When Hannibal fucks me, I’m not lesser than him. I’m not weak. I’m not less of a man. There are not power-plays between us, or one-up man ship and trying to prove who is the more masculine or “dominant” (unless that is a game we have  _agreed_  to). That would be easy, and incredibly boring for the both of us.

With him I am equaled. We  _cleave,_ bodies slick and trembling and burning together.  

I bottom. I don’t own a lot of things about myself I should, but I  _own_ that. It’s mine and I claim it in bloody, greedy fistfuls.

If you want to bottom, if you like it, if it makes your body feel like it’s made of sunlight and you can’t get enough of it, if it makes you hard or wet — I’m inclined to say you should do to the same and claim it. Own it.

Well that got longer than I expected. It will probably stoke Hannibal’s ego, too: the parts that sound most like him.

 **But here ends the** **crappy** **advice interlude.**

Now back to our regular programming. 

Next up: how many times can Hannibal make me come in  _one_ evening, and by what means?

Stay tuned, followers. 


	12. Five Times

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What was the greatest number of times Hannibal made you cum in one night, and what method did he employ each time?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted [here](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/93890345388/what-was-the-greatest-number-of-times-hannibal-made-you).

[OOC: Again, the top section, in italics, is the answer Will would give if he were able to be completely honest. The bottom section is his actual answer. Enjoy!]

* * *

> **What was the greatest number of times Hannibal made you cum in one night, and what method did he employ each time?**

 

**Truth:**

_Five._

_It was snowing that night, thick enough the world had turned white._

_He got stuck in my long, winding driveway, and walked the final five hundred feet or so and by the time he reached my door his woolen coat was heavy and wet with snow, his hair white with it._

_"Hi," I said. "This is a pleasant surprise."_

_"I was … out," he said. Displeasure wrinkling the edges of his lips. "I got caught in the snow storm. Very sudden," he looked up at the black sky and scowled._

_I laughed. “Yes, the weather can do that. I guess you’re staying with me tonight. Come on.”_

_He hesitated, just a little, and when he drew near _he smelled like blood, and adrenaline, h _ _ot and sulfuric.____

_I licked my lips._

_"Is there anything … in the car you need to tell me about?" I asked. Meaning a body. I’d hoped this wouldn’t happen, because then I couldn’t safely keep pretending and feign innocence if he were found out._

_He curled his lip, half a snarl._

_"No, of course not. It’s taken care of."_

_He loomed over me, black, black and starless as the sky._

_"I wouldn’t do that to you, Will," he said, lips and teeth tender against my own._

_I laughed again, huffing into the kiss, his cool lips. I thought: can a psychopath actually love? Can a narcissist? I’d been thinking about it for awhile. Ever since I got into the police force, and then the FBI, actually._

_It would make such an interesting treatise._

_And I’m not stupid enough to care._

_I grabbed his coat and drew him closer and said: “I love you.” I didn’t expect it, the words just came._

_Hannibal likes to talk in ridiculously oblique metaphors, dance around things. So while he talks about the lover and the beloved, he’s never actually said those words to me, and before that night I hadn’t said the words to him, though the feeling had been there for a month at least. Longer maybe._

_He actually recoiled a little and blinked at me as if I’d hit him._

_"Come inside," I said._

_He was endearingly awkward when we sat down and had some cider, spiked with whisky, to warm us. He didn’t even take off his coat, just sat at my table as if he didn’t know, any longer, who he was or what he was doing, or why. Like he’d been suddenly dropped in a foreign country and actually didn’t know the language._

_Can a psychopath love?_

_I reached over the table and wound my fingers through his._

_"About what I said —"_

_He frowned._

_"You don’t have to say anything, okay? I know you. I know you," I said. "I know."_

_We drank the cider and I my blood warmed. Hannibal looked at me, dark eyes like pieces of black flint, sharp enough to cut._

_"Why don’t you show me, instead?" I asked after a moment, trembling._

_"Show you what, dear Will?"_

_"How I make you feel."_

_Hannibal made a noise, wholly primal and devouring._

 

**Another Truth:**

Five. Hannibal got snowed in at my place one night, and, well. We made ample use of our time together. 

  1. First he got me off by the fireplace. He wanted to see me naked in the firelight, so I stripped for him. And then were lying on the floor, side by side, both naked, both burning for one another as he kissed me all over and stroked my cock. Whispering how beautiful I was, how much he loved to make me come.
  2. Next he rimmed me and fingered me until I was sweating and begging for him to finish me.  Still by the fireplace.
  3. The fireplace was rather too warm by then so he carried me to bed (yes, I allowed myself to be carried and I liked it). I dosed off but when I woke up it was still dark and Hannibal’s mouth was around my cock, slowly coaxing me back to hardness. His fingers slick with lube inside me again, pushing me open gently. When he took my entire length and hummed in the back of his throat, I came. He swallowed and lapped up every. Single. Drop. (Such a good boy.)
  4. On my back, thighs splayed, our bodies slick and pressed together. I don’t know how long. It was languid with weariness already and surprised when I got hard again halfway through, as he rocked against my prostrate. When I came it was weak, and whimpering. 
  5. Orgasm number four roused me long enough that I climbed on top of him and took his cock into my ass. I rode him, nice and easy at first, and then harder, faster.  _I see you_ , I said to him, and he moaned, throat and body arching as he thrust and came inside me. 



Technically number five wasn’t my orgasm, but it felt good enough to count.


	13. Stretched Out in Homage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Laid beneath your gaze like this made me feel sacred. "

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by [this artwork](http://the-erotic-cannibal.tumblr.com/post/90004517526/poetry-later-shall-i-read-to-you-darling-from) which was posted to Tumblr.
> 
> Originally posted [here](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/94113128348/the-erotic-cannibal-poetry-later-shall-i-read).

_Do you remember, Doctor?_

_Early spring. The rain murmuring against the windows as asked you to read Rumi to me._

_You said you hated Rumi. He's been commodified, you said.  Rendered tawdry by the likes of Coleman Barks and all those upper class, aging hippies who think it is trendy and "cool" to like Rumi. Who misunderstand his meaning, profaning it by making it cheap and "romantic"._

_"Too bad," I said. And then: "If you read me Rumi, I'll lie in the bed naked and let you look for as long as you like. Just read to me. I like to hear your voice when you read to me."_

_You studied me for a moment, and then nodded._

_"A fair trade," you said._

_"Even Steven," I said, shedding my clothes like the cherry trees outside had finally shed winter's snow and ice._

_Laying down, your eyes flickered over me, like sunlight on water. Appreciating every dip and curve, tracing moles, freckles, scars. Following the line of my side over my hip, and then over my ass, down my legs. Lingering sometimes on my navel, or my clavicle, my shoulders, my lips._

_Laid beneath your gaze like this made me feel sacred. I saw you as you saw me. You mirrored my beauty back to me and it made me breathless for a moment, as you began to read. I couldn't close my eyes to you even if I wanted to. To the longing in your face, in your voice as you read to me._

_In my mind I remembered your face earlier in the morning when you came inside me and I wondered how I could ever stand it. The way you looked at me. Saw me._

_The words, as you read, moved out through the air, glittering like mist before disappearing._

_That morning your face was every gorgeous cathedral face you'd ever told me about, humming with appreciation over their beauty. Your face was every drop of wine you ever fed me, every beautiful meal you'd lavished on me, every kiss we'd shared, every time you'd touched me. Your face was every crisp morning I woke up and watched the sun breaching the horizon. Every star in the sapphire sky. Even the changeable moon herself was in your face as you read to me._

_I marveled at your multitudes, letting myself sink down into that, into your voice, your eyes, a fly in your honey. A moth towards your flame in the dark._

_My body stretched out in homage for you._

_[[X](http://mresundance.tumblr.com/post/94112714327/i-see-my-beauty-in-you)]_


	14. The Truth and All its Consequences

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Yes, Hannibal found out about the blog. Or, more precisely, I left the browser window open on his iPad one evening so he could find it. Conveniently. I was curious to see what he would do, how he would react."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted [here](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/94130413093/the-truth-and-all-its-consequences).

[OOC: In other posts the italics, or "Will is actually 100 % honest here" sections have usually been on the top, with Will's "censored" and official version of the post below. This post has a reversal of that. The "official" post follows immediately. The italicized section appears after.

Warnings for spanking if that is not your thing.]

* * *

  **Retribution**

My ass is still raw. When he rubs aloe on it in the evenings, Hannibal assures me the bruises are fading from rose and lavender to a daffodil yellow. I tell him he's pretentious. When he kisses me, open mouthed, he holds my jaw, warning me. As if to say:  _remember boy, you earned those bruises and welts._

Yes, Hannibal found out about the blog. Or, more precisely, I left the browser window open on his iPad one evening so he could find it.  _Conveniently._  I was curious to see what he would do, how he would react.

Before I remunerate the details, two things. First, we have safewords, so nothing happened here that I didn't want. Second, when Hannibal punishes me, it's less like punishment and more like . . . retribution. It's not _petty_ , but righteous. And makes my blood sing every time.

When he found the blog, at first he merely asked me about it. He had to give me chance to confess, to own my mistakes. I shouldn't have violated our privacy. I shouldn't have shared intimate things about our relationship. Especially not without speaking to him first. I knew better. It was very wrong of me. I said so, when he asked.  

Then he hauled me off to the bedroom by my hair, where he tore my clothes off and spanked me.

A simple enough punishment, but effective. I always like spankings. His hands, heavy as bricks, thudding into my flesh. Then his belt cracking, raising thin, bloody welts on tenderized skin. By the time he finishes my dick is always  _aching,_ and often I lean into his blows, letting my body speak for me:  _yes, please, punish me. I've been such a bad boy. I deserve this. I love your hands raining fire and pain on me on me like this._

Then he took me into the bed. His touches softened, caressing me all over as he murmured what a beautiful boy I was, with my face and ass flushing red for him. Lovely boy, as his lubed fingers slid into me. And then a smooth, slender buttplug, vibrating softly as he put the cock ring on me. 

He left me there, knees folded around my ribs, ass pressed uncomfortably into the bed. He said I should be a good boy and wait for him to come back. I shouldn't touch myself or come in his absence.

Hannibal's ceiling is very, very interesting, by the way. So is his carpet. And the patterns on his sheets. Especially if you're trying to forget a plug humming in your ass until you're numb with the pleasure. Especially if you're trying not to fall over just so you can rub yourself against the bed --  _technically_  that wouldn't be touching.

When he returned, I nearly came with both relief, and how pleased he looked. He said I was  _such a good little boy, so patient_ , as he took the cock ring off and slid the plug out. For a moment I lay panting, trying to regain myself from the sensory overload. He only grazed my skin with his fingertips, waiting until I could focus on him again.

He finished me by rimming my asshole, in firm and languid strokes, with his tongue. On another night it would've taken him awhile to draw an orgasm from me. But that night, I was writhing in minutes. He pulled out just enough to murmur that I should  _come, come._

Before he even finished pushing is tongue back in me, I did. I came like a flood. I came all over, nosy and shameless. And then lay in bed, as if I were boneless, comprised of nothing more than broiling blood and semen.

We made an agreement after. I can have this blog, and write all the intimate details I want. He'll allow it because, he said, it seems to bring me pleasure (and it  _does_ ). But in exchange for each mention of our sexual activities, he wants something in return. Favors, you could say.

Ay, there's the rub. Quid pro quo: it could be sexual; it could also be something else like mailing a package for him, cleaning his kitchen floor.

Though it's a good agreement, I hope Hannibal gives me some weeks off. I do worry about all the favors I'll be racking up.

 

**Quid Pro Quo**

_He drew the bath after, and it filled while we had a quick shower, washing off the sweat and cum._

_In the bath, he cradled me close, and I sank down into him. His heat and his solidness seemed to give me back my bones. I began to feel the tendon and muscle around me, and my skin: the solidness of my body._

_He kissed the back of my neck, ran damp fingers through my hair. I nuzzled him. I half wanted to stay in that dim bathroom all night. The bathwater and his body were warm, but not overly so; it actually felt soothing to my burning ass. The room was quiet and dark as a cave, illuminated by only a few candles._

_I kissed his temple._

_"I love you," I said, voice hoarse from pleading with him as he'd spanked me. As he'd asked me if it was_ appropriate  _that I should share intimate secrets with strangers._ _Asked me if it was_ appropriate _that I should slut myself all over the internet like some cheap rent-boy._

_I'd gasped: no, no. Of course not._

_And: I'm sorry. I'm so goddamn sorry._

_He'd even asked if his attention wasn't enough for me anymore. And if perhaps if I wouldn't be better off with someone else._

_I drew him closer to me._

_"What are you thinking of, Will?"_

_I huffed. "Earlier. How you said you'd leave me. Or implied it. Is the sadist in you satisfied that you made me cry?"_

_He stroked my face. "I wouldn't have left you over this."_

_"I know," I said. "That was part of the game. It worked. Beautifully."_

_"Hm."_

_A smug sound, though, not as resonant as usual. He probably wondered if my crying was any more real than his threats._

_I coiled against him, tucking my head beneath his chin._

_"Tell me Will," he said, running fingers through my hair._

_"Hm?"_

_"Why did you do that?"_

_"Do what? Cry? You'll have to be more specific, Doctor."_

_"Create that blog. Keep it from me. Show it to me the way you did."_

_I peeled away from him and resettled on his thighs._

_"Three reasons, really," I said, reaching down into the bathwater to touch his cock. Though limp, it twitched, and Hannibal's lips drew back a little._

_"First, I wanted to see what you would do when you discovered the blog," I tightened my hand around his cock and began stroking. "Second, I'm fucking proud. I am too proud. I wanted to show you off. To show us off. Third, I'm an exhibitionist when it comes to sex. You know that."_

_He shifted as his cock began to stiffen._

_"Mmm," he said. And the only noise for some minutes was my hand in the water, on his cock._

_"If you want to keep your blog there's nothing I can do about it. Though it would be nice to be . . . consulted . . . about the content."_

_I hummed my agreement._

_"And I would like, Will, if you're going to be sharing our sexual intimacies, to do something in return for me."_

_"Quid pro quo?" I asked._

_"Yes."_

_Still stroking him, I leaned down, my lips close to his._

_"What do you want in return, Doctor Lecter?" I whispered._

_His eyes were lightless._

_"You should join me on a hunting trip," he said, the words so low I could barely hear them._

_For a minute I couldn't breathe. I stopped stroking him, and instead curled back against him._

_"You know you can't ask that," I said. "My job --"_

_He made the disgusted face, the one he uses when he wants me to stop being so_ pedestrian.  _Mundane. Boring._

_"All the great masters of the arts, they had to embrace their talents in order to do their great works. Can you imagine a world without Beethoven? Chopin? Rembrandt? Even Van Gogh, who you like so much?"_

_I laughed._

_"Why is that funny, Will?" he hissed, and it should have frightened me._

_"No, no. It's not funny. It's just. Your work . . . is so magnificent. Perfection, even. You are the great master of our time. And there's nothing I could add to that."_

_He was quiet for a minute, savoring my praise. Words I'd thought about before, in case I needed them. Carefully chosen, and only half untrue._

_"You're wrong Will," he said. "You would surpass me in time. Your work would be . . . visceral and exquisite. Van Gogh to my Gauguin, if you will," he smiled a crooked smile._

_"I'm not cutting my ear off for you," I tried to joke. And then: "Hannibal, you know what you ask is not an equal exchange. Not Even Steven."_

_He made a face, but I'd won. For now. I asked him to get up, go to the bed, and spread himself out on his belly._

_"I want to rim you," I said as we clambered out of the tub._

_"Of course you do," he smirked. "Put that lewd tongue of yours to good use."_

_I bit him on the back of his neck, hard enough to taste his blood._

_As he lay beneath me, my tongue moving inside him, I thought about his offer. I thought about the fact I was tonguing the Chesapeake Ripper. Murderer. Cannibal._

_But he made the same sounds other men did when they were pleasured. When he came, with a grunt, skin sweaty, he came just like any other man. When I held him he was flesh and blood and bone, like all men._

_Can a psychopath love? I thought again, stroking his hair as he drifted off to sleep._

_I wish I could say I didn't stay awake all night, thinking about that._

_And his offer._


	15. Deep Throating

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I want to know where, when and how you learned how to deep-throat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted [here](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/94131311133/i-want-to-know-where-when-and-how-you-learned-how-to).

> **I want to know where, when and how you learned how to deep-throat.**

 

The first time I succeeded at deep-throating was to prove a point,to my college roommate. Although, he didn’t  _know_ that.  

Before him, I’d had a fair bit of practice with fellatio and had tried deep-throating, but never really succeeded. (It might not have helped that I was a size queen and kept choosing men with enormous dicks. Note to younger self: bigger is not  _always_  better.)

My sophomore year college roommate was one of those clichéd “good Christian boys”. You know the type. He looked so wholesome when I first met him it made my teeth ache. I once joked that he and Mr. Rogers shared a wardrobe. Adorable, yes — in retrospect. But when you’re a nineteen year old male — not so much.

He was beautiful too: short, chestnut colored skin, curly black hair. Easy going and funny. He wasn’t ignorant. He was well read, well traveled. He’d been to other countries on mission trips.

We had good times together. Mostly goofing off instead of doing homework, watching awful horror movies, going to the student union and knocking back a few rounds of pool. Sometimes we talked religion and philosophy. He made me laugh and I’d forget what a proverbial goody goody I thought him to be.

Until Sunday morning rolled around, that is. He’d put on his dress slacks, shirt, and tie, comb his hair back as much as possible. Every Sunday, he asked me if I wanted to go to church with him. He never asked out of politeness. He asked because he  _liked_  me. His invitations were a way for him to say he cared about me.

I began to  _really_  suspect when I noticed him furtively trying to check out other guys in the bathroom. (In our dorm, there was one shared bathroom per floor, with showers.) And a more than a few times I caught him checking  _me_ out.

One day I took a nap in the afternoon, and I woke up to my roommate shuddering and panting as he jerked himself off at his computer. I took the liberty of checking his browser history and … it was all just gay porn.

Of course, I said to myself.

There came a night when I coaxed him to drink — Jesus liked a good party, turning water into wine and all — and the alcohol loosed him up enough to tell me he did, in fact, like dudes, at least a little, but he was conflicted about that. His grandfather, a pastor, said it was wrong, his parents were ambivalent.

"What do  _you_ think?” I asked him.

"I … I don’t know," he mumbled.

Oh fuck it, I thought, and I kissed him, long and deep. He made a small frightened noise, but then I felt him respond under me. His lips pressing back into mine. His tongue in my mouth. His hands on my body.

"Did that feel good?" I whispered.

"Yes," he said.

I took his clothes off and kissed him all over and asked him if that also felt good.

I showed him how to stroke my cock, and made little noises in the back of my throat when he bent down to taste me, just swirling his tongue the head of my cock. I asked: do you like that?

As we lay naked, rubbing our bodies together until we were both sweating, flush, I said: does this feel good?

Yes, yes, and yes.

Finally I bent down and took him in my mouth. I was slow, teasing. But I couldn’t resist the temptation, so I pushed all the way down until the head of his cock throbbed against the back of my throat.

He gasped. I liked the sounds he made, so I kept doing it. Until his fingers were tight in my hair and he was moaning, whimpering. Saying: “ _Jesus,_ " and "Oh God."

When he came he was saying “God,  _oh God,”_ over and over, like a prayer.

As I licked his cum from my lips, I thought: oh, who is your god  _now?_

It took him a little while longer to be okay with who he was. A few years ago, I received a card in the mail from him. Apparently he was a pastor for a Metropolitan Community Church, a church which encourages gay members to join. I even Facebook stalked him for half an hour. In his pictures, he’s still the same, clean cut, breathtakingly beautiful bastard.

In the card he left me a note, thanking me for helping him feel better about who he was, even though it was years ago.

It embarrassed me, actually. So much so that I threw the card and the note out.

I mostly  _did_  want to help him. I liked him. But a part of me only did what I did as a mockery. To mess with him. To see what he would do.  

_No bad deed goes unpunished._


	16. Hooking Up with Trans men

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Would you ever consider hooking up with trans men?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted [here](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/94170012588/would-you-ever-consider-hooking-up-with-trans-men).

> **Would you ever consider hooking up with trans men?**

 

Do I like having a hot, slick tongue rimming me?

To use the colloquial:  _duh._

To be less crude: I like men and trans men, being men, fall into that. 

In my experience there are not vastly different rules governing hooking up with trans guys. They are not some alien species, or “magical unicorns”. It’s pretty much like hooking up with any other guy. You have no clue what he’ll like, what his body will like, what he will respond to, what he  _won’t_  like. 

Therein lies the challenge. And 99.9 % of the fun. (The remaining 0.1% usually being: how the hell do I get this cum out of my hair/this shirt/off the ceiling? And: did the wet spot  _really_ just leak all the way through to the mattress?  _Again?_ )

A hit list of “trans dude bests” from former days. This is not a complete list. Also let it be known that I use the same terms these guys used for themselves when referring to body parts:

  1. College again. I had a brief dalliance with trying to join my undergraduate university’s GLBT groups, to limited success. Mostly because they wanted to forcibly convert me to veganism. But I met a guy there — I’ll call him John — and he was trans. Like me, he also enjoyed meat (literally and otherwise). We hung out for awhile, and it was clear that we wanted to bone each other into next semester. John liked to get my ass slick and wet with spit and lube, and then fuck me with one of his three dicks. Sometimes I got to choose, sometimes he did. But it the fact I got a different dick almost every day was  … amazing. That went on for about 3 months before John graduated. 
  2. My first job out of college, and the police academy thereafter, was for the New Orleans Police department. I met a guy after I’d just been promoted to detective (homicide, no less). We were together very briefly, because my job destroyed my personal life (a recurring issue I’ve long had). But he loved me sucking his cock and fingering his front hole until he came, wet and whimpering. 
  3. One guy really wasn’t the  _best._ He was maybe the best looking guy I ever dated, and just looking at him would make me salivate and my dick stiffen. But he was terrible in bed. Terrible. I understand, even empathize, but it wasn’t really fun to fuck someone who never seemed to like, well,  _himself_. (Again, I empathize. I don’t like myself much sometimes, and I don’t even have the issue of dysphoria.) He always wanted to top, which is fine. But then he never wanted me to touch him, or hold him, or do anything he thought might be “feminine”. He hated his body, even though he was  _ripped_ and easily one of the most macho men I’d ever been with. (That’s really what made him mouth-wateringly hot, in addition to the fact he elevated sarcasm to an art form.) To him, not having a penis — like mine — was devastating. He thought he would live his life and just be miserable because of it. He thought maybe if he had surgery to “get a dick” it would help. He never really let up about that. Nothing I could say would change his mind. I could suck his favorite cock (basically a very expensive, custom made “dildo”, but I cringe to use that word even for clarification) until my jaw ached. I could call him “daddy”, get on my hands and knees and tell him how much I loved his big cock while he rode me, and be as demure as possible. It wouldn’t make a wit of difference. So I broke up with him because it wasn’t going to work. I hope he feels better about himself because he was just  _miserable._   
  4. For a complete 180 from this guy, there was a man I will call … James. James liked to wear dresses and panties and skirts and stockings on occasion. James liked to wear make up and dress androgynously. Think Boy George, circa 1982, and you have a good approximation of James. As the saying on the internet goes, James had exactly “no fucks” to give about what people thought of him and his gender and his presentation. He took testosterone, but had no surgeries and actually  _liked_  his breasts, or, as he called them “the top boys” and “tatas”. He told me that the testosterone alone had eased his dysphoria to the point that he was happy with who he was. He was one of the most enjoyable sex partners I ever had and still holds the current record for getting me off the most times in a 24 hour period. (Hannibal is trying  _very hard_ to break that record, because he’s like that.) James memorably tied me up one day and spent most of it alternating between: rimming me, fingering me, flogging me, having me suck his cock, and then, finally, easing himself over me, his warm, wet front hole sinking down over my achingly hard dick. But he was  _agonizingly_ slow about it. He wanted to listen to all the little sounds I make when I’m desperate. 




	17. Do Your Colleagues Know?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Do your colleagues know about your relationship?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted [here](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/94173176008/do-your-colleagues-know-about-your-relationship).

 

> **Do your colleagues know about your relationship?**

 

My question would actually be: how could they  _not?_

And this goes for both of my work places. Technically, my primary job is teaching (uh, at the FBI academy, no less). My secondary job is as a consultant for the FBI. I used to do a lot more consulting, but it’s bad for me, so I only do a few exceptional cases a year, and get paid a hideously large fee for it each time (this arrangement was actually Hannibal’s idea). I do however, like to go out for drinks and spend time with my consulting job cronies regularly. 

I say “how could they not” because I think the fact that Hannibal and I were pretty much caught in the act in my lecture hall has now passed in to academy legend. Incoming students used to hear about Jack Crawford getting terribly hazed his first year. Now they hear the story about how eminent psychologist Hannibal Lecter was caught sodomizing eminent profiler and special agent WIll Graham. 

(And, just so you know anon: someone asked about public sex and sex in workplaces, so the whole tawdry tale is soon to be regaled and posted in much more  _intimate_ detail.) 

As for my consulting cronies: three of them are lab techs and basically my favorite people to be around, especially Beverly, who, to borrow her own words: “gets me down into the marrow of my filthy twink soul”. They of course know. 

My consulting boss, however, Jack. He pretends it is not happening. When it first came out, Jack pulled me and Hannibal into his office. Because  _technically_ , you see, Hannibal was sort of a co-worker at the time, and my psychiatrist. Jack liked neither of these things, in light of the fact that Hannibal and I were now involved. Jack’s a good boss, he works hard, he just likes things to be the way he wants them and when they’re not it’s extremely frustrating to him. 

So when I told Jack that Hannibal wasn’t my psychiatrist anymore because we had begun an intimate relationship, and oh, by the way, I don’t want to consult as much anymore, well. To say he  _yelled_ wouldn’t do it justice. The rant he directed at Hannibal and me rattled the very doors of Jack’s office, and all the plaques and pictures on his walls. It was no less than an all caps affair of THIS IS NOT HAPPENING and THAT IS UNPROFESSIONAL and DOCTOR LECTER I TRUSTED YOU and DOCTOR LECTER I AM DISAPPOINTED IN YOU.  _  
_

In retrospect it’s hilarious because poor Hannibal bore the brunt of the blame for some reason. But, as Hannibal has said to me, Jack sees me as a “fragile little teacup” sometimes.

Now Jack’s reaction is basically to pretend he doesn’t see that Hannibal and I are involved. Which is fine by me. It means less questions. 


	18. Favorite (Dirty) Fantasy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What is you favorite dirty fantasy Hannibal had you act out? What has Hannibal acted out for you?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted [here](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/94173946258/what-is-you-favorite-dirty-fantasy-hannibal-had-you-act).

[OOC: Again, the first parts, in italics, are the uncensored truth, if Will felt he could share it. The second part is the “official” answer/post.

Also, I blatantly borrowed from [Odalisque](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1847926/chapters/3974035) for one of these fantasies. So if the scene seems vaguely familiar, that’s why. It was … one of the most disturbing and hottest things I’ve ever read.

Oh and hey, warnings for violence and extreme gore in this one.]

 

* * *

 

> **What is you favorite dirty fantasy Hannibal had you act out? What has Hannibal acted out for you?**

 

**Truth (My Fantasy):**

_Blood._

_Another man on top of me, rubbing our slick, hard cocks together while I writhe back against Hannibal. His cock throbbing, buried deep inside me._

_We haven’t done this yet, but we’ve talked about it. In the dark together, spooned in bed. Just whispering desires because whispers are like smoke and shadows: insubstantial and easily dissipated. If I ever said this out loud to Hannibal, told him that I_ craved  _this, while looking him in the face -- I know it wouldn’t be a fantasy much longer._

_For now though, a fantasy. Another man on top, groaning and sweating as our cocks rub together. Moaning: “I’m gonna come.”_

_That’s when Hannibal slides me the knife._

_I grab the other man’s hair, jerking his neck back, just as he finishes. That one, vulnerable moment when his body is open to everything. His eyes are shut. He trembles with pleasure, with life, rosy as the dawn. And a sunset._

_The knife rends through his throat, through tendon and muscle. Not like butter. Ghastly, grisly. And the blood. It pours out of him, falling in warm, wine-bright cascades all over my body, joined with Hannibal’s._

_I come then, with a noise of shock and abandon, and Hannibal growls and, thrusting one last time, finishes too._

_"Beautiful," Hannibal murmurs, in the lull after. With his fingers he swirls the cum and blood on my stomach together, and raises the mixture to his lips._

_If we ever did this, I don’t think I would ever be able to forget the look on his face as he tastes._

**Truth (Hannibal’s Fantasy):**

_We arrange to have my dogs watched for a week and go up to the mountains. Not the Appalachians; the Rocky Mountains in Colorado, where the sunsets are orange and red against lavender mountainsides, the air is crisp, unburdened. Especially high up, in Crested Butte. We could go to other mountain towns — Aspen, Vail, Breckenridge. But Crested Butte is remote, and quiet, and homey, even in the ski season. Everyone knows each other. Everyone says “hi” and waves to one another. It took me awhile to get used to it, but Hannibal loves it. Sometimes, he actually laughs when he talks to these strangers._

_They know us as Mr. and Mr. Harris. Our names on the lease for our condo are William and Hannibal Harris and we are from Washington DC. I am a consultant and he is a doctor. Not too far from the truth, but far enough._

_When we go to Crested Butte — we’ve gone up twice now, but Hannibal would like to go up four or six times a year — he leaves his expensive suits at home. He wears jeans, slacks, t-shirts, sweaters, flannel button downs. Sometimes even plaid. He’s still striking, still well groomed and pressed. Just a softer version of himself. Kinder, milder. More relaxed. Leaning into me, radiating warmth, as we walk up the main road, Elk Street, to the whisky distillery where we spend hours sometimes, drinking, eating finger foods, and charming the other patrons there. Radiating warmth as we come home, snow falling in the pitch dark, and he skims the clothes off me and makes love to me achingly, tenderly slow. Kisses every part of me._

_Says: I love you Mr. Harris._

_And I say: I love you too, Mr. Harris._

_Up here, where the air is thinner, cool and sharp as crystal, and the stars shine clearer and brighter than any place I’ve been, even in Wolf Trap, we are less damaged versions of ourselves. I’m not an empath on the edge. Mischa never happened. We fold into normalcy. It’s a delusion, but it’s so very comforting._

**Partial Truths:**

We have a lot of fantasies we like to try out with each other, and fortunately there hasn’t been anything that either of us has said “no” to.

For myself: my favorite fantasy is not really a fantasy and ridiculously mundane. For all my cock hungry ways, I love to cuddle with Hannibal. I like coming home from a long day and just curling up in his lap and being stroked and petted. Feeling his warm and solid body against mine. Like we are the only two people in the entire universe.

I like lying next to him in bed, at night, looking into his shadowed face as he skims his fingers lazily over my stomach. We are wrapped in a cocoon together. There is nothing outside of us. There is nothing wrong. Everything is just … _right_. It’s like the moments before the beginning or the ending of the world, the warm dark before birth or destruction. There is nothing dangerous, or hurtful, or wicked in this place. I know I could say  _anything_ to him then and I’d be safe. He would listen.

I like this place.

Hannibal, on the other hand, has a fantasy we play out where he is my little and I am Daddy. He plays at being younger, much younger -- a child version of himself. I am the same age, and I teach him how to touch himself, or touch another man, and sometimes I even take his virginity. This "virginity" is not limited to topping him. It could be any kind of virginity: fingering him anally, rimming, teaching him how to suck me, sucking him, praising him as he mounts me, another man, “for the first time”.

This might seem ridiculous, especially if you knew him and looked at him. It would be difficult to imagine the way he transforms himself when we play this scenario out: how his shoulders slump, so he appears smaller than he is. How his elegant limbs loosen, ever so slightly, moving with less control, less restraint. How the years fall from his face and he smiles up at me, bright eyed and eager. How his voice trembles and hitches with desire and fear as I coax him.

"Daddy, is it going to hurt?" he says, on his hands and knees, naked, lithe body gleaming faintly in the dim light of his bedroom.

"No, sweetheart, it's going to feel good," I say. My hands are gentle on the inside of his thighs, gentle as I stroke inside of him and draw intimate little gasps from him.

"Oh Daddy," he says, flush and pushing back against my fingers.

"You're such a good boy," I say, entering him slowly, so slowly. "My beautiful boy. My Hannibal."

When we finish he often asks if he did a good job, still in his younger voice.

"Hannibal, you did a _perfect_ job. You made Daddy feel _so_ good. But more importantly: did Daddy make _you_ feel good?"

"Oh yes Daddy," he says, biting his lip. He is pensive, worried. And for a moment, I can  _see_ him. Or, another part of him. The child Hannibal was once, alone and terrified. And then the teen, angry and vengeful. Not understanding that the world is cruel, and bad things happen even to very good people. Even to innocent little boys who didn’t do anything wrong at all.

"Hannibal, you are  _such_ a good boy. You are the best little boy ever,” I say, holding him close and feeling him relax against me.


	19. Manipulating Hannibal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How do you get Hannibal to do something he's initially reluctant to do? Teach us to be the clever, occasionally manipulative boy you are?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted [here](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/94177894913/how-do-you-get-hannibal-to-do-something-hes-initially).

> **How do you get Hannibal to do something he's initially reluctant to do? Teach us to be the clever, occasionally manipulative boy you are?**

 

~~_Manipulative?_ _Moi?_ ~~

Hannibal never does anything that he doesn’t  _want_ to. (Neither do I, for that matter.) It’s not really a matter of manipulating him. If he’s reluctant to do something, he has his reasons. I listen to them. And then he listens to my reasons for doing the thing he is reluctant to do. 

It’s not manipulation so much as  …  _persuasion._  He has to know how it will benefit him, basically. 

Exhibit A: it took awhile for me to convince him he wanted me to treat him like a “boy” on occasion, the way does to me. My arguments ran the gamut for some weeks, before I finally said: but don’t you want to help me become  _better_ Doctor? More submissive, more pliant to you? And how can I do that if you don’t  _show me_ how you would like me to submit?

It took him a few more days, but when he finally made his decision, he performed the part with a shockingly frank elegance. He started by letting my dogs loose one evening and then pretending to forget about them. It was winter then, and well below freezing before sundown. So I was  _pissed._ Someone in my little pack of strays could have been seriously hurt. No one was, fortunately — everyone was regathered and brought safely back into the warmth of my home — but I was so angry with Hannibal it felt like it was coming off me in tidal waves. 

"Hannibal,  _what the fuck,”_ I snarled at him. And when he turned and looked at me, his eyes bright, body coy, I knew. I  _saw_ what he was doing. And this pissed me off even more, but also exhilarated me. Finally, I thought. 

I had him begging in minutes. On his back, whimpering for me not to hurt him, he could be a good boy, he was sorry, he made a mistake, he promised he would be good. His face red with the handprint I left there. 

It was beautiful, the way he opened his lips, gagged on my cock. And beautiful too, the way he kept begging me as I stretched his tight asshole with just fingers and spit. Magnificent as I grabbed him by his hair and fucked him, hard and raw, into the floor. The little gasps and sobs he made were — stunning. Exquisite. Made me all the harder. 

All and all, he bore the punishment quite well.

I’d expect no less of him. 


	20. Openly, Brazenly (Sex in Public)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Do you have sex in public places or at your workplaces? If so, have you ever been caught?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted [](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/94277475348/do-you-have-sex-in-public-places-or-at-your-workplaces)

[OOC: I am learning that twink!Will is a lying shit. Well, he doesn’t exactly lie as much as tell half truths, almost  _always_.

This post was supposed to be smutty and quick. Instead it turned into yet another version of “which truth”?

The top portion is his “official” post and answer, the bottom, italic portion, is the information he wouldn’t be telling anyone.

 **Warnings** in the bottom section for: descriptions of murder, mentions of domestic and child abuse, and for Will getting off to really dubious things. This is really profane even for me, but this is also  _Hannibal_ , so. Enjoy?]

* * *

 

> **Do you have sex in public places or at your workplaces? If so, have you ever been caught?**

 

**"The Legend"**

Do I enjoy the taste of Hannibal’s cum first thing on a Saturday morning (or any morning)?

Yes, and yes. (I certainly did this morning.)

There are a lot of things which can make me moan like the cock hungry twink I am. But there are few things that will make me moan more readily, openly, brazenly, than the prospect of public sex. It’s part of the exhibitionist in me. It’s fortunate this tendency didn’t reveal itself until I was older and could have more control over myself (in fact, it was first noticed when I was with [James](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/94170012588/would-you-ever-consider-hooking-up-with-trans-men)). Who knows what unholy terror I would have unleashed in college or when I was working in New Orleans if I had been more in touch with my exhibitionism.   

Hannibal has indulged me on this more than I care to say, simply because the good Doctor is much more restrained, and public sex almost borders on lewd. Except, of course (and to paraphrase his own words) when it’s my red lips working gently around his cock while we’re parked in front of the FBI. Or I’m come in my pants simply by rubbing against Hannibal while we wander the quiet, dim halls of the Fossil Plants exhibit at the Smithsonian. We’ve had sex in public restrooms, museums, art galleries … everywhere but the opera or the really swank restaurants he’ll take me to sometimes; Hannibal has to draw a line somewhere.

The fact we haven’t been caught more often is more about Hannibal’s restraint and sense of decorum than anything.

The time we were caught — which has already passed into FBI academy legend — a guest speaker had come and found me with my pants around my ankles and Hannibal fucking me over the desk in my lecture hall.

I was clearing up after my last lesson of the day and Hannibal dropped by to see me, after he’d done a small presentation for a colleague’s class. I had forgotten there was a guest speaker coming that night. I thought we had the lecture hall to ourselves, minus the janitors. While that is  _technically_  not public sex, it was enough.

It didn’t take long for kissing and rubbing to turn into Hannibal lapping me open while I keened and lay draped across the desk. His spit slicked fingers slid into me, one, then two, and then his cock. It hurt — not nearly enough lube — but I rolled back into the pain, begged him to fuck me hard enough to make the desk groan.

I was just whimpering Hannibal’s name as I came when the doors to the lecture hall opened. I heard footsteps, some grumbling, and then a shocked noise, before the footsteps retreated  _very_ rapidly.

When Hannibal and I stepped out there was a crowd of students and staff waiting, and the crimson faced guest speaker, who couldn’t look either Hannibal or me in the eyes. It made me laugh, later, when I was well out of earshot.

But soon enough the students started talking about this incident (people always have to have some fodder to gossip about), and now I’m Will Graham, eminent profiler and special agent who got sodomized by the eminent Hannibal Lecter. 

It has a nice sound to it.

 

**Please**

_I felt him when he came in, as the students drained from the room. Felt him as he came up while I studied printouts of crime scene photos spread across on the desk. Some group work for the students. They worked together in small “forensic” teams, looking at the pictures, and the evidence, trying to figure out the killer’s design, sketch out his pathology. Some even got it right._

_Domestic abuse. Child abuse._

_Likely alcoholism._

_Wounded child who wanted to make mommy and daddy love each other._

_I leaned back into Hannibal, craning my neck back to kiss him, deep, lingering. My blood already burning from the knowledge that his work was far, far finer than this killer’s. This killer’s work made me feel nothing but pity, and — increasingly — disdain. There was no art to it. There was no precision. No elegance. Just years of repressed rage and guilt and shame finally spewing out. A child having a long over due tantrum by killing white middle aged married couples. Mommy and daddy. And then stripping them and positioning their naked bodies as if they were in coitus. They would love each other finally, and be happy. And then they could love him._

_Saying this killer was anything like Hannibal was like saying a six year old’s crayon drawings were a match for Botticelli. One is a wounded, frightened child who sees the world in monochrome and stark contrasts: good and bad, black and white. The other lets the beauty of life, of this world, sing through him with every brutal, elegant slice of his blade._

_There is no comparison._

_I growled into the kiss and moved Hannibal’s hand against the growing erection in my pants._

_As he turned me over, slid my pants down, his palm warm against my ass, I stared down at those photographs. The dead sightless eyes. The ligature marks on the necks of the couple. I felt repulsed, because it was just such a waste. Hannibal would have made their deaths absolutely magnificent._

_Hannibal’s tongue inside me, and then his fingers. Hard, stretching me open._

_"Do you want this Will?" he asked, pressing his cock against my entrance._

_My face pressed into the desk, against lifeless faces._

_"Please," I groaned, rolling my hips._

_His cock split me, blistering, and I begged him to fuck me harder. I needed to feel him inside me, deep as he could go. I wanted his cum inside me so badly. As he fucked me against the table, I closed my eyes._

_The pendulum dropped._

_I saw the scene. But this time instead of the crude, childish killer, it was Hannibal’s kill. Bodies moved. Someplace outside Wolf Trap, Virginia. Dropped weeks ago, so when they’re finally found, it’s hard to tell if they are a man and a woman._

_He drove hard into me and the weeks turned back. The decomposition left the bodies. The tendrils of ivy which had lovingly wrapped the bodies, gone. The flowers decadently placed in their mouths, and emptied chest and abdominal cavities, gone. The bodies whole and hale, except for the fact they’re dead and Hannibal has just snapped both their necks while I watched._

_And I was hard, so hard, my cock bumping against the desk. I came with a whimper, calling Hannibal’s name as my cum splattered across the pictures, the scene._


	21. Romantic Gestures

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Do you guys ever do romantic gestures to each other?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted [here](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/94298395438/do-you-guys-ever-do-romantic-gestures-to-each-other-i).

> **Do you guys ever do romantic gestures to each other? (I know that, despite the subject, I'll get a nsfw answer. I can feel it)**

 

What are you saying, anon?

That I am some horny cumslut who can’t keep it in his pants long enough to have a romantic half hour with my partner before I have my twink lips wrapped around his dick, moaning his name as I penetrate myself with a dildo and stroke my livid, throbbing cock? And later, once Hannibal has had his fill of me, fucking me until I am red faced and keep moaning wantonly for more, trying to open my legs all the wider, Hannibal lets in the formidable line of hard, waiting rent boys he has paid for the night to come and take turns on me until I am a sweating, cumslick, ass-stretched-sore- _mess?_

_Is my life and my relationship just some cheesy porno to you?_

That hurts anon. 

I just spent a whole, beautiful,  _romantic_ afternoon with Hannibal. Our dicks were not even involved except for the fact they are attached to us. My twinky lips were reserved for only smiles, talking, and chaste kisses. (Okay, maybe there was some tongue.)

Our romantic afternoon mostly consisted of taking a morning hike through the woods near my house, and then eating the delicious brunch Hannibal packed for us. Enjoying each other’s company and a last sliver Virginia summer before the winter comes again. 

It was lovely. 


	22. Blunt Force (Some Brownham)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How do you feel about Mr. Matthew Brown and his blunt force trauma hawk metaphors?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted [here](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/94350329938/how-do-you-feel-about-mr-matthew-brown-and-his-blunt).

Well, to start: I have no doubt that Mr. Brown is reading this and has read most of this blog. It’s sort of his … modus operandi.

Every time I visit the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally insane on work related business, I will say that Mr. Brown is incredibly polite and incredibly accommodating of me. 

Whether that accommodation has once or twice involved me sucking him off in a broom closet, running my hands over his  _gorgeous_ abs, and listening to him moan “Mr. Graham” like I was the second coming (and I  _was_ , just not  _that_ second coming) is entirely between me and Mr. Brown, however. I just don’t think Frederick Chilton would appreciate his orderlies using company time to bend visitors over and rim them until they were  whimpering and begging for said orderly to “please let me come”.

As for his blunt force trauma hawk metaphors: I enjoy that they are blunt. Exactly like Mr. Brown’s cock, thick and throbbing, when he fucked me in the backseat of my car one afternoon during his lunch break. He fucked me so hard that it left bruises on my thighs. And when Hannibal saw those he was ecstatically  _jealous_ and possessive, and fucked me hard enough I saw stars so he could reclaim me. 

In summation: the occasional visit to Mr. Brown and his blunt force dick, I mean, trauma hawk metaphors, does a body good.

PS. Dear Mr. Brown. Shall we say 3 pm next Saturday, for our next play date? 


	23. Pet Play (Pet Peeve)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ever been into pet play?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted [here](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/94351204173/every-been-into-pet-play).

> **Ever been into pet play? <3**

 

Unfortunately, I’m going to have to disappoint you and answer with a big “no”.

I know I have a veritable pack of dogs living at my house with me, and some folks think that would make me inclined towards pet play. 

Nothing makes me want to erotically role play an animal/have my partners erotically role play an animal  _ **less**_  than living with a bunch of dogs who have all collectively crapped, vomited, copiously shed, slobbered, and peed on me, our home, my belongings, or the car. It’s what dogs do and I don’t get angry at them for it. But none of those things turn me on or otherwise put me in the mood. So no thanks! 

 


	24. Cheating

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> are you saying that you blatantly cheat on your partner? I thought you were serious

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Originally posted here.](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/94352193718/are-you-saying-that-you-blatantly-cheat-on-your)

> **are you saying that you blatantly cheat on your partner? I thought you were serious**

 

??????????

What do you mean “blatantly cheat”? Hannibal and I are in a monogamish relationship, which means that we dabble outside of our relationship. I dabble more than he does, but he is never ignorant about it, and we are welcome to veto each other’s “extracurriculars” if we don’t feel comfortable with it. And I always take the necessary precautions to keep Hannibal (and myself) safe. 

Does “being serious” mean we have to fuck only each other? 

No. 

Sex is not the same thing as emotional intimacy for me. I have a lot of  _emotional_  intimacy with Hannibal which I’ve never experienced with another partner, much less just a play partner. This is why we are “serious”. At the end of the day, I go home to him and no-one else. At the end of the day, he knows things about me (and I him) that no-one else does. 

Plus, you can tell by this blog, we are also very sexually intimate too, and the emotional intimacy  _obviously_  contributes to that.  _  
_

In short: I don’t really have to justify my sex life to anyone anon, much less _you_ , but I’ll grant that perhaps some clarification might be required. 

 ~~Still, rude.~~  


	25. Settling Down

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Do you ever see yourself "settling down" so to speak and starting a family with someone? Or is that not something you're interested in?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Originally posted here.](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/94353195608/do-you-ever-see-yourself-settling-down-so-to-speak)

> **Do you ever see yourself "settling down" so to speak and starting a family with someone? Or is that not something you're interested in?**

 

Hannibal and I, for now, are as settled down as I think we are going to get.  We’re both fairly independent people and we both have our own lives and interests in many ways. Having children would disrupt that. And it would be wrong for us to adopt or otherwise care for a child because of that. Children need a lot of care and support and Hannibal and I are not necessarily in a place in our lives or relationship where we are equipped for that. 

I can’t say that fatherhood doesn’t appeal to me, though. I think I would be a good father. I just don’t know that that’s a good idea, when I consider all the various . .  . aspects of my life. 

Besides that, Hannibal and I are working on deepening our current relationship and trying some new things together. Our energy is going into that right now, and adding a kid on top of that would be a bit much. 


	26. Monogamish

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so the going outside a relationship for sex thing. Is it because you and Hannibal don't feel your sexual needs could be met by just one person, or is it more about requiring variety?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Originally posted here.](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/94354894963/okay-so-the-going-outside-a-relationship-for-sex)

> **Okay, so the going outside a relationship for sex thing. Is it because you and Hannibal don't feel your sexual needs could be met by just one person, or is it more about requiring variety? I've always wondered about open relationships and if there's a reason for it or if it's just a preference.**

 

For me, anon, it’s mostly that I am a wanton twinky slut and I was long before Hannibal caught me and decided I was worth keeping. 

It’s  _necessary_ for me to be in an open relationship, especially if that relationship is long term. I have … a voraciously high sex drive (as if you haven’t noticed). And Hannibal  _satisfies_ me very thoroughly. It’s not a problem of that so much as … well, I went grocery shopping this week and I saw a cute guy in the store and I seriously contemplated the chances of sucking him off in the bathroom. 

I think we all do things like that, but I will act on them more often than most. I just like sex. _A lot._  I am good at sex too. I like having sex. I also like the attention I receive. 

But that’s me. 

Other people have entirely different reasons for having open or monogamish relationships. Some people think it’s not only unrealistic, but impossible, to expect one person to satisfy your emotional or sexual needs. To them it seems like a lot to ask of a single person to satisfy all that. 

Some people want variety, I’m sure, and that’s not bad either. Why not? Life is for living and sex is fun. Why not enjoy while you can? 

I think some people enter into a relationship with someone who is a good emotional match, but ends up being a terrible sexual partner. But they don’t want to throw out the whole relationship because of the sexual mismatch, so they go outside of the relationship to for that. 

It can work in reverse too, I imagine. 

But there’s a lot of different reasons people will have open or monogamish relationships. I say “monogamish” because Hannibal and I are each other’s primary partners and our relationship is our core relationship. I don’t have other romantic relationships, and neither does he. But I have sexual relationships with others, even if they’re fleeting. 


	27. Ever Been in an Orgy?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ever been to an orgy, Will?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted [here](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/94357774933/homoette-submitted-ever-been-to-an-orgy-will).

> **ever been to an orgy, Will?**

 

Twice. Ish.

Orgies are okay. But I prefer situations where I basically get to the focal point of the action, technically a “gang bang”. (Which makes me selfish, probably, incorrigible,  _definitely_.)

The first time was in company of the now infamous [James](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/94170012588/would-you-ever-consider-hooking-up-with-trans-men), who convinced me to explore my tastes in BDSM more. I joined a local fetish club with him and we signed up for a play night that was basically an orgy night. There was some kink, but it was mostly vanilla, very clean and safe. Mostly straight people, unfortunately, but it was a lot of fun. I most remember watching James, moaning and writhing while another man fucked him. At the same time, I was drawing some very delicious sounds from a woman, first with my fingers, then with my tongue. When both James and the woman came, they called my name. Which  _did_  stoke my ego and then some. 

The second time was more of a gang bang scenario. Again, I worked through a fetish/sex club, and I basically signed up to be fucked by a group of guys. 

It. Was. Amazing. Thank you.

Glorious to have guys all around me. The smell of them all, hot and acrid. Their cum thick and sticky on my lips, my face, in my hair, all over my body. Their sweat as they slid their fingers and cocks into my lubed hole. The feel of different cocks and bodies throbbing against me. One cock inside my ass, another sliding past my lips, fucked both ways until I was coming all over. And then another cock, hard in my ass and, yet another cock, pink and leaking precum as it rims my lips. 

I would love for Hannibal to set up a gang bang for me, to be honest. I would love to have other men fuck and defile me and fill me with their cum while he watches. 


	28. More on Monogamy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One last question: if Hannibal (or anyone) wanted to be in a fully monogamous relationship, would you agree or end up breaking it off? Would you feel it's unfair for your partner to even ask?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Originally posted here.](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/94358690683/hey-same-anon-asking-about-open-relationships-thank)

> **Hey, same anon asking about open relationships! Thank you for answering and not taking offense. I realized after I submitted it might be taken as judgemental. One last question: if Hannibal (or anyone) wanted to be in a fully monogamous relationship, would you agree or end up breaking it off? Would you feel it's unfair for your partner to even ask?**

 

Don’t worry about it anon! I was touchy about it because I would never cheat on Hannibal, and the suggestion I would admittedly drew my ire. 

I could never be in a fully monogamous relationship, unless I was dead. If my partner was alive, that would be necrophilia and therefore, out of bounds for completely other reasons. 

I would have to break up with anyone who asked me to be completely monogamous. Asking that of me would be basically asking me to change an important part of who I am. It’s not like asking someone who has a problem picking up their socks to be more thoughtful, or asking someone who drinks all the milk to buy an extra gallon in consideration of others. It would basically be asking me not to be me, the cock hungry sex loving twink that I am. 

Hannibal knows who I am, and appreciates me for the person I am, even if he finds me irritating. (And the feeling is mutual.) So I have no concerns about him asking me to be completely monogamous. Because he knows that would be like asking him to stop going to the opera, or loving music, or cooking amazing food. 


	29. How did Hannibal First Seduce You?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How did Hannibal first seduce you? Or perhaps, you seduced him?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted [here](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/94364846593/how-did-hannibal-first-seduce-you-or-perhaps-you).

> **How did Hannibal first seduce you? Or perhaps, you seduced him?**
> 
>  

The seduction was mutual once it was clear that we were both attracted to one another. 

For Hannibal — to use a cliché he will almost certainly  _grimace_ over, which is why I will use it — it was “love at first sight”, I think. He was very interested in me from our first meeting, which was technically a business meeting.

At the time I was a rude, grumpy ass, so I really didn’t respond to his interest or advances very politely.  It also didn’t help that I had an undiagnosed case of encephalitis which made me not feel like myself, and made me  _unbearable_  to be around.  

Hannibal was … courteous and persistent though. And my psychiatrist.

He never made untoward advances towards me while I was under his care. But he was attracted to me, much more than a psychiatrist should for his patient.  He knew that but I think he …  _cared_ so much, in his way, and he just couldn’t refer me to another doctor.

Things changed when a man, Tobias Budge (you might have read or heard about him?), tried to kill both me and Hannibal in the same day. I was investigating Budge for a string of murders, and it just so happens he was the murderer. He conveniently made that obvious by killing a police officer and then trying to slice my face into sections with violin strings (just another day on the job). He then went to Hannibal’s office where he murdered Hannibal’s patient (who had been a “friend”, apparently) and then trying to kill Hannibal.

Budge died from the injuries he sustained in the fight with Hannibal. Officially I’m supposed to say that’s “unfortunate”.

But all I really remember is the fact that I couldn’t swallow before I made it to Hannibal’s office. It was like I was choking on glass until I saw that he was alive. Face cut, bloodied, shaken,  _yes,_ but alive.  And it was transparent to both of us how relieved we were to see each other.

It made me really think about how I felt about Hannibal. So naturally a few days later I drove to his house and arrived at 6 am in the morning so I could not only tell him how I felt, but ask him if he felt the same. I remember asking:

"Do you  _want_ me?” and I was terrified I’d put him off, because I’d been rude and unapproachable.

"Yes, Will," he said simply.

And I wrapped my arms around him and kissed him. Sloppy and wet, without any finesse. No finesse either when I got on my knees. I was shaking, because we were both  _here,_ together, and we both  _wanted_ one another. I pulled his cock out of his pajamas and began, slowly, to suck him.

I’ve sucked a lot of cock, of course, but this was different somehow. Maybe that’s another cliché, but I wanted to really  _taste_ him in my mouth. To feel him swell against my tongue. To cherish those little gasps and noises he made. I just wanted him to feel exactly how I felt about him being alive. How glad I was.

He returned the favor, with great gusto, bobbing on my cock until his lips and checks were faintly red, and he was moaning for me. Moaning  _please Will, I’ve waited so long._

I rimmed him until he was rutting the floor. He didn’t want me to leave him to go find lube, so I actually used some of his fancy, very expensive olive oil to stretch and open him. I almost laughed at that, but his body flexing around my fingers made me so hard. I’d never wanted anyone more.   
  
Our clothes were only half off when I slid into him the first time. Tight, and so warm, so good. My Hannibal, I thought, putting my hand between his shoulder blades and feeling the muscle move there.

I thought of Budge hurting him, trying to kill him, and I wanted nothing more than to rip Hannibal’s clothes off, and paint new bruises on top of the ones Budge had left.  To fuck Hannibal hard enough to leave bruises so he would  _know._ He would have marks to tell him how I felt.

Hannibal tells me that when I came I was practically growling, and I was so dominant, so possessive, it made him come too.

But ever since that morning it’s always been equal. We have what we call an “Even Steven” agreement that things will be equal between us. What one gives, the other receives. But we give and receive in turn.


	30. Impudent, Insatiable Boy (Daddy Play)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Have you ever done any little/daddy play?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted [here](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/94370580338/have-you-ever-done-any-little-daddy-play).

> **Have you ever done any little/daddy play? <3**

 

Do I love it when Hannibal makes me come with his hand and licks it off my stomach?

Mmmmm yes. Daddy play is something we do a lot of. Sometimes [I actually get to play daddy](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/94173946258/what-is-you-favorite-dirty-fantasy-hannibal-had-you-act) and Hannibal is my beautiful, eager boy. But usually he is Daddy and I am the little imp-cum-ruffian he puts up with, rewards, and punishes as the case may be. 

Just last night I broke into his office while he was gone for a few minutes, and scattered a bunch of papers across his desk. I then proceeded to strip and masturbate, so that when Hannibal returned to the office, he was greeted by the sight of me, naked in his desk chair, stroking my cock, and trying to look downright  _mischievous._

I said: “Daddy, where I have you been? I  _missed_  you.”

Well, Daddy was not well pleased with me. He informed me by first paddling me (with his big, strong hands) and then instructing me to get on my hands and knees on the desk and sort out his papers. With my teeth. When I complained he spanked me. But when I was a good boy, and I did what he asked, he stroked my sore ass, and my hair. 

When I finished and everything was just the way Daddy liked it, he sat down in his desk chair and pulled me into his lap. Daddy’s lap is firm, and warm, and the feeling of his soft trousers against the back of my thighs was so good. Daddy smelled like his cologne too, spicy and burning.

“Daddy,” I gasped, rubbing my cock against him, enjoying how my sensitive skin shivered in contrast to the coarser fabric of his clothes. “Daddy, I want to come,” I said.

“You have been a bad boy,” he said, putting his thumb to my lower lip, then into my mouth, where I sucked it as greedily as I would Daddy’s big cock.

“You are now being selfish,” Daddy added, slapping my ass with his free hand. “Let Daddy look at you and take his fill of you and then you can come when Daddy says you can.”

So Daddy did. He ran his hands all over me. Those huge hands, so strong, but tender as he messaged my ass; as he stroked up and down my back; splayed his fingers against my ribs. Daddy leaned down and smelled me and moaned that I smelled  _so good_  and he  _loved the smell of his impudent boy, especially when he wanted to come_.

Then Daddy started to play with my nipples. I arched back as Daddy pinched and rubbed and sucked my nipples until they were both red and my body sang with the sensations.

“Please, Daddy,” I whined. “Please let me come.”

“Impudent, insatiable boy,” he  _tsked,_ but didn’t stop me as I took his cock out — so big and hard already — and bent over to suck him.

I love Daddy’s big cock in my mouth. It’s one of my favorite things in all the  _world._ The way his cock was thick and heavy against my tongue. Daddy loved it when I rolled the foreskin back, gently, and rimmed the head of his cock. He loved it when I make little circles against the slit, loved it when I took him in my mouth and stroked him.

“Beautiful boy,” Daddy panted, grabbing my hair, pulling my lips up so he could kiss me again.

“Beautiful,” his hands pressing down my body, firm this time, pulling my ass cheeks apart.

Daddy would never, ever hurt me, not really, so when he pressed his fingers to my tight little entrance, they were slick with the lube he has in his desk. And he was very slow with me, putting just the tip of one finger in, and then two, and then easing those fingers in, scissoring gently, gently, even as I quivered and begged,  _Daddy, Daddy, I want to come_ and  _Daddy, Daddy,_ _I want your big cock._

Daddy always makes sure I’m ready and he did last night, as he tilted me back against the desk, and put his cock inside me. It felt so good and I said so, whispering, gasping,  _Oh Daddy, I love your big cock, oh Daddy. It makes me feel so good._

As he thrust inside me, he squeezed my cock and said: “Come for me, Will. Come for Daddy.”

And because I’m such a good boy, I did. 


	31. Jealousy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asks: and what about you? are you jealous of [Hannibal]?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Originally posted here.](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/94376566318/and-what-about-you-are-you-jealous-of-him-he-must)

 

> **and what about you? are you jealous of him? he must have some... clingy patients**

 

Jealousy is actually something which is … new to me. In previous relationships or hook ups, I just never experienced that. I felt, if my partner didn’t want me any more, it didn’t have much to do with me, and more to do with what they wanted or needed. And vice versa. If I fell out of love with someone, our interests had diverged and it was time for us to diverge as well.

If I wanted to hook up with someone and they were  _interested,_ then it wasn’t a problem and jealousy wasn’t even necessary, because we meant very little to one another. And if they didn’t want to hook up with me, there were plenty of other fish in the proverbial sea.

With Hannibal it’s different.  _He’s_ different. He’s … it’s like watching a thunderstorm roll in, really. If you’ve ever been to the Western US, the Great Plains region. They have these long, placid days of sunshine, and skies the same color as a robin’s egg. Miles and miles of wide, flat plains. It’s remarkably, mind-numbingly,  _boring_ for the most part. But then some days, the air tastes metallic, like hot coins left in the dryer. The world sizzles with some unknown, uneasy frisson. And then the sky is no longer pale blue, but black and bloody purple as the clouds roll in. The world is thunder and white lightning and black sheets of rain falling, falling, like a flood at the end of the world.

And Hannibal is like that frisson in the air before the storm breaks. 

I’ve never known anyone like him, so it makes me a little possessive and jealous in my own right. I know he holds me in high regard, but I sometimes I can’t stand the idea that anyone would  _know_ him the way I do. 


	32. Who's the Better Cocksucker?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> who's the better cocksucker- you or Hannibal?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Originally posted here.](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/94383984828/whos-the-better-cocksucker-you-or-hannibal)

> **who's the better cocksucker- you or Hannibal?**

 

I would say I have  _the edge_ on this, simply due to experience, and my overwhelming love of cock in general.

But then, Hannibal once hummed [the entire first chorus of Gloria](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kC3fiN1A0pM) while going down on me and fingering my asshole. 

We were in a hotel that night for various reasons, and a very nice one at that, but people  _halfway down the hall_  still heard me when I came. I  _was_  digging bloody crescents into Hannnibal’s shoulders, and screaming his name. 

My list of fellatio accomplishments are impressive, but I can’t say I’ve ever done  _that._


	33. Alana or Margot?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alana Bloom or Margot Verger?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Originally posted here.](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/94390576843/alana-bloom-or-margot-verger)

> **Alana Bloom or Margot Verger?**

 

I felt myself typing an apology or disclaimer for  _being such a stereotypical guy_ but you have  _seen_ both of these women, right? You know they both dress to the nines, sleek as the finest silk, and when they walk down the street on a mission there is  _nothing_ that will stop either of these women. Nothing. It would be an honor and a pleasure for me to to lie prostrate before either one and let her walk all over me, even if she was wearing heels.  _Especially_ then.  _  
_

I would go down on them until they came multiple times, finger them and suck their nipples until they were wet and pleading, have them take turns pegging me and spanking me, or take turns fucking them if they wanted, or be their sweaty, moaning, red lipped, twinky sandwich filling. I would enjoy watching them with each other and completely ignoring me.

But in real life, well.

Margot is a lesbian so for obvious reasons that is not going to happen. It would be rude of me to even try. (But I can always dream.)

Alana is actually my quasi-ex girlfriend. We dated and had a sexual relationship very briefly, before I met Hannibal. She is a very brilliant, very attractive woman, and very funny when she lets herself be, but we were ultimately … not compatible. _  
_

So I guess that, _more or less_ , answers that question in the definitive. 


	34. Omlette du Fromage (Laughing in Bed)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> But could you tell us about a time you and Hannibal have laughed in bed?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Originally posted here.](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/94440339953/hi-will-you-talk-about-super-serious-sexy-sex-with)

[OOC: A part of this answer goes out to the peeps in the [Murder Husbands Network](http://murderhusbandsnetwork.tumblr.com/).  _Hon hon hon baguette_. Apologies for misuse of French and language kink.]

* * *

> **Hi, Will! You talk about super-serious sexy sex with Hannibal a lot, and it's great that you guys have such a hot relationship. But could you tell us about a time you and Hannibal have laughed in bed?**

  
Hannnibal likes to think he is some suave, Don Juan-esque type, as if he just stepped out of the pages of Lord Byron’s poem, hair perfectly done up, suit immaculate. Even in bed he tends to think things are a bit like Romantic poem (capital “R”, like the English [Romanticist](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Romanticism) movement), complete with ethereal and lush descriptions of the beauty of love etc. 

The joke is, of course, that Byron’s Don Juan was a satire. And sometimes Hannibal, like all of us, is completely unaware of how ridiculous he can be.  

Example: We were in his bed, on a typical evening, “doing the do” before going to sleep and Hannibal started dropping his fancy French on me. I say fancy French because he speaks like a native. The best I can do is slur my way through Cajun. 

And while it is really hot when he talks French in bed, I was just lying there, beneath him, while he rubbed our cocks together, and for some reason the absurdity of who Hannibal is sometimes just struck me. He was red faced and gasping above me, and his hair was still  _immaculate._

_How?_

So while I rolled my hips, I leaned up and kissed him, whispering into his lips:

"Omlette du fromage."

I know enough French to know this is a completely nonsense phrase. 

You know the look cats get when you have done something which offends or irritates them? Where they pull back their ears and look at you like you must have surely lost your mind?

Hannibal got that exact same look. 

And god help me but I laughed. Hannibal tried to hold out, but I heard him snort after a moment and then a low chuckle as he bent down to kiss my chest. 


	35. Do You Still Have Nightmares?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Do you still have nightmares? If so, is there anything Hannibal can usually do to help?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Originally posted here](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/94555776818/i-was-happy-to-read-that-you-are-doing-less-consulting).

[OOC: The top portion is Will’s official answer, the bottom portion, in italics, is his “100 % honest” answer.

I’ve admittedly been throwing this scene around in my head for a bit, and this ask gave me the perfect opportunity to explore it.]

* * *

>   **I was happy to read that you are doing less consulting work these days, due to the strain it put on you. My question: Do you still have nightmares? If so, is there anything Hannibal can usually do to help?**

 

**In the Dark**

I fortunately don’t have migraines, nightmares, or insomnia much anymore. Most of that was the product of a bad case of encephalitis which I contracted and went undiagnosed for some months, until I was having both auditory and visual hallucinations.

I also have an empathy disorder, which means that my sense of empathy doesn’t have healthy boundaries. That is, I sometimes don’t know where my own thoughts and emotions end and another person’s begins.

The empathy disorder coupled with the (then unknown) encephalitis meant I had no idea what was real, much less what I felt or thought. The encephalitis pretty thoroughly eliminated what boundaries I  _did_  have.

If you have ever woken up in blackness, no light — imagine extending that. Instead of your eyes adjusting and being able to make out the shapes of the furniture in your room, you still can’t see anything. Or, if you do see something, it’s your mind trying really hard to compensate for the utter darkness. One minute you’re sure that thing you see is  _there_. The next you’re just as sure it’s  _not_  there. You hear things but you can’t be sure you heard it or if you just  _wanted_  to hear it.

Now stretch that over months and you will know how I felt before I had a seizure.

I was really fortunate. I felt awful that night, but my friend Beverly convinced me that going out for drinks would help. I had a seizure right at the bar, and Beverly figured out right away what was going on and dialed 911.

In the hospital they found out I had enchipalitis and started treating it immediately with the requisite antivirals and anti-inflammatories until the swelling in my brain went down.

The hallucinations — the waking nightmares I’d been having — finally began to recede, but I was still  _terrified_. Remember, I’d been living and walking through that dark, alone, for months now and I wasn’t sure this wasn’t another delusion. Would I wake up and  _not_  be in the hospital, recovering? What if I was really just going crazy?

Hannibal came to see me when I was in the hospital, and I remember begging with him to  _please, just stay with me_  because I was so afraid I would wake up and all this would have not been real. I can’t say if I was just thinking of recovering in the hospital not being real, or even if my whole relationship with Hannibal, which was a month old then, would have not been real.  

I fell asleep with him holding my hand. When I woke up he was in the hospital bed with me. Sans his jacket and his shoes, but otherwise fully dressed, cupping my body against his as much as he could with my IV.

 _This is real._  The thought cleaved through me, all those months of blackness. And I finally relaxed back into his arms, his smell, his closeness, and slept.

I still have nightmares from time to time. The doctors told me the effects of the encephalitis would be “temporary” but I’m not entirely sure that’s true. Any time I have a nightmare or can’t sleep, I call Hannibal and he will come. If he’s in Baltimore, he has driven out to my house in Wolf Trap. If we’re in his home, I’ll tell him I’ve had a nightmare, or I’m afraid, and he just wraps his arms around me and holds me close and tells me it’s all right, it’s okay, and he can see me, I’m right here with him.

 

**(Seeing) In the Dark**

_You remember that night, in the hospital?_

_I said: “You brought me chicken soup.”_

_And you were very … fussy about that._

_You helped me to sit at the table and doled out warm tea and chicken soup, and asked me how I was feeling._

_Unmoored, I thought._

_There were no more nightmare visions. No more hallucinations. I was alone, and felt naked here in the hospital. There was nothing there but the dim lights and the shadows. And you, sitting across from me._

_For a moment I thought the hallucinations had returned and I couldn’t understand what I was seeing. What I felt and understood in that moment, as the scales fell from my eyes._

_I saw you then. You, as you are._

_I had not even seen you clearly when I first penetrated you, rough, wanting, your body warm and splayed out beneath me on your kitchen floor._

_Clever me, I had not even seen it then._

_I had known though — something._

_Do you remember that night in the ambulance? When I missed my appointment and you came to find me? Jack thought he had finally cornered the Ripper. We both knew he had just cornered some medical school hack desperate to make some quick cash. And when you got into the ambulance to stop the victim’s bleeding, we looked at one another._

_I knew — something. I might have seen if not for the haze of enchipalitis fogging my brain. I might have seen you for the pitiful little boy you had been once, the one who didn’t die despite everything. Who had grown into a man who_ looked normal.

_You looked normal to me in the hospital too, even with the crown of black antlers haloing in your head. The suddenly black pallor of your skin._

_What are you? I thought. Are you real?_

_I reached out and grabbed your hand just to be sure. The antlers and black pallor dissipated, but you were still you._

_"Doctor Lecter," I said, voice unsteady. "Did you know I was sick?"_

_The silence seemed to go on forever._

_And I knew._

_"What were you going to do to me?" I asked._

_You pursed your lips as if examining a very persistent stain, and then said: “Who do you think I am, Will?”_

_"I_ know _who you are, Doctor. I_ see  _you,” I said and my whole body was shaking._

_You drew your hand away._

_"You’re having an episode, Will —"_

_"No. I’m not," I said quietly. "I see clearly now. More clearly than I have in months."_

_Silence again._

_Where you thinking of how to dispatch me then? Probably._

_But I just sighed and rubbed my face in my hands. Everything hurt._

_"Look," I said. "I care for you. I think you care for me —"_

_"Of course I care for you Will —"_

_"But … I’m really tired Hannibal. I’m not crazy, I’m not hallucinating, but I am. Tired. I won’t say or do anything until I’m feeling better and out of this hospital."_

_"What would you say or do Will?"_

_"Please, Hannibal. Can we not play games right now? You know what I mean. I won’t … tell anyone your secrets."_

_You looked at me like you were trying to evaluate how much I was lying._

_"I just want to talk to you about … things first. A real talk. Almost like a normal couple."_

_Half sarcasm, but all truth._

_You smiled and my heart was stammering._

_You were going to kill me, somehow._

_You nodded and I was too exhausted, too stunned, to care anymore._

_I slouched back into bed._

_When I woke up you were coiled around me like a constrictor._

_I shouldn’t have found it so comforting._


	36. Sunflower and Rose (Best Orgasm)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Best orgasm Hannibal's ever given you?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Originally posted here.](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/94641753963/best-orgasm-hannibals-ever-given-you)

> **Best orgasm Hannibal's ever given you?**

 

That’s actually a difficult question to answer. Hannibal likes giving orgasms and since he is extremely good at wringing them from me (and vice versa on both counts), if I kept a “Hannnibal and Will’s Best Orgasm Hits” list it would always be changing. 

That, and I don’t tend to keep track. Not because we have so many, either (maybe more than some, less than others). Of course some orgasms are better, but an orgasm is still an orgasm at the end of the day and keeping track seems a little … ungrateful, I suppose? As Hannibal once said to me: you don’t quibble with a sunflower for not being a rose. Both are beautiful and to be appreciated, just differently.   
  
Since I don’t really track the best I can do is offer a sampler of a recent orgasm.

We were in Hannibal’s office at the end of the day, once his last client had gone home, and enjoying some wine while Hannibal tidied and did some book-keeping. We were mostly languishing in that between space: daylight work and evening leisure, the sun having just gone down and the sky outside lavender with the faintest spots of stars beginning to show. A comforting silence settled between us while Hannibal worked and we both drank. I was thinking maybe we would draw a bath later that night, our bodies twining together like strands of ivy in the water, when Hannnibal shut his books and sat in the chair across from me. Like in our old therapy sessions.

I smiled at him, felt the wine flush in my face and throat. Hannibal’s eyes darkened for a moment and he drank, neatly, as he always does, as if he were unaware of me entirely.

Then he said: “Will, I want you to stand up.”

"Why?" I asked.

When he looked at me it was clear it was more of a command than a request, so I stood.

Hannibal licked his lips and drank his wine, but the whole time his eyes were on me, and he looked  _ravenous._

"Strip for me, Will," he said. "Slowly."

I laughed, softly, but I knew better than to quibble with that tone. All iron, and it made my dick throb to hear it.

After I got my shoes and socks off, I took my time unbuttoning my shirt, and letting the cool cotton part from my skin. Unbuckling my belt, unbuttoning and unzipping my pants. Languid in pulling the pants down my stomach, past my hips and thighs, and stepping out of them.

"Like this?" I whispered, rubbing my nipple through my thin, white undershirt, cupping my hardening cock through my boxer-briefs.

"Yes Will," he exhaled. "Please continue."

The shirt came off, inch by inch. First hitching it over my stomach as I reached inside to stroke my chest and my nipples. Then the sides, and then finally, up over my torso, my shoulders, my head.

I waited for awhile with the boxer-briefs. Swaying my hips just a little, moving nearer to Hannibal as he drank and looked at me.

"Do you like this?" I asked him, sliding my hand beneath the band of my boxer-briefs.

He made a noise of approval and I let the fabric pull down, over my navel, exposing the black brown curls there, and then down my ass and my thighs and legs until I stepped out of them.

I stretched for him, feeling his eyes all over me, and licked my lips.

"Are you going to touch me?" I asked.

He looked at me. He put his glass down, and stood. He circled me as if I were a piece of meat strung up at the butcher’s shop. His eyes were hot hands all over my body: up my calves, over my thighs and groin, up my stomach, chest. His breath ghosting across my shoulders. Lingering on my lips.  

He went to his desk for the bottle of lube he keeps there and my body tightened with anticipation.

"Hold out your hand," he said when he returned. He put some lube in my palm and then gestured to my cock before settling back into his chair.

"Stroke yourself Will. Stroke yourself for me," he said, putting the lube aside and taking up his wine again.

My cock was already half hard, of course, and the soft flesh pulsed beneath my fingers as I began to stroke myself. I could smell my arousal, hot and damp, my cock growing thicker and heavier while Hannibal drank and watched. I whimpered, thumbing the precum in circles on my swollen, aching head, squeezed my balls gently as Hannibal licked his lips again.

"Stop," he said.

I groaned in protest, but I did, cock bobbing out in front of me.

"Turn your back to me, Will."

I did, slowly.

"Bend over for me."

I did, feeling the flush again in my face and chest.

I was like that for long moments, the head of my cock bumping my lower belly.

"Hold your cheeks open for me," he said.

I moaned as I did, trembling because I felt so exposed in front of him like this. Some more long moments while his eyes clambered all over me, and I imagined the heft and weight of his cock sinking into my body, spreading me open.

"Hannibal," I murmured.

"Finger yourself," he said.

It was difficult in that position, but I managed, of course, pushing first one, then two lubed fingers into my hole, moving them in and out, panting and gasping softly, still imagining his cock inside me.

"Stop," he said. "Stand up."

I did both and when he came towards me I could smell his arousal too, see it hot and black in his eyes. He cleaned my hands with his handkerchief and gave me more lube, before sitting back down again. His legs were spread so I could see the thick curve of his erect cock pressing against the fabric of his pants.

"Stroke yourself again, for me, Will," he said, squeezing his cock through his pants.

I did, and the edges of my vision were already melting with pleasure before he stood up and walked to my side.

His hand in the small of my back, burning. His breath warm in my ear as he whispered: “Come for me, now, Will. Come for me.”

The orgasm left me sweating, shaking, saying Hannibal’s name while he looked all too pleased with himself.


	37. Belly of the Beast (Weirdest Place)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What's the weirdest place you and Hannibal had sex?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Originally posted here.](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/94670190428/hello-whats-the-weirder-place-you-and-hannibal-had).

[OOC: The top portion is Will’s official answer. The bottom, in italics, is the answer he would give if he could be 100 % honest about such things. Sorry for the really sudden tonal shift from the first part to the second part, by the way. 

As far as I’m concerned both of these assholes should be locked up in the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane. 

 **Warnings**  for violence, whipping, asphyxiation, and safeword usage in the second section. Also emotional manipulation.]

* * *

 

> **Hello :) What's the weirdest place you and Hannibal had sex?**

 

**The Height of Fashion**

_Weirdest place we’ve had sex?_ I like how you think anon. 

This will come as completely no shock to some readers, but, a crime scene. 

It was last winter. I went to consult for the first time since[landing in the hospital with encephalitis](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/94555776818/i-was-happy-to-read-that-you-are-doing-less-consulting). Hannibal came with me to offer moral support. 

I won’t either bore or disgust you with details of the actual crime scene (well, okay, a quick description, for the morbidly curious: a body, torn not just limb from limb, but in small enough pieces to basically make a kind of gory confetti sprayed over the snow. Quite macabre and remarkably beautiful in its way). 

Instead let me discuss Hannibal’s patiently ridiculous hat. 

He thought this thing was the height of fashion.

I thought it would be put to better use gagging him while I fucked him in a nearby gas station bathroom. It was a small bathroom, so, we made do with our pants only halfway down. Hannibal pushing back against me, making needy little noises in the back of his throat as my slick fingers stroked and opened him. Then the soft little exhales of breath he made when I pushed my cock into him. And the shocked little gasp when I came inside him. 

Technically  _not_ the actual crime scene, maybe, but close enough. 

 

**The Basement**

_Down into the pitiless black belly of the beast. Down, down, the stairs falling from beneath my feet._

_He slapped me again, and the blood welled in my mouth while I leaned against the stainless steel table in his basement. My scalp ached from where he had yanked me and fairly thrown me down the stairs._

_I knew I would get hell for that stupid hat. But this was more than that. There was a fury in him, scalding, intoxicating. Fury at me for debasing him, perhaps, in that filthy truck stop. Fury at the wanton way I fucked him and came inside him. Without any regard or control._

_But mostly fury at the way I’d devoured that crime scene. For the first time in months I could think and feel clearly, and being at that scene was like being alive again. It was freezing out, but I felt cramped in my coat, hot, my cock half hard from looking at all the blood, the cherry red viscera patterned against the white snow._

_Hannibal was there. More than his physical presence. I sensed him in the carnage itself, as if he’d dipped his fingers in … somewhere. An influence._

_All of this — my reawakened senses, my knowledge of who Hannibal was, and that he was somehow connected to all this — had felt like a strange, overwhelming gift._

_I’d wanted nothing more than to fall backwards into that bloody snow, feel it all seep into my coat while Hannibal fucked me._

_I expressed that to Hannibal by rubbing against him and whispering crude suggestions when I thought no one was looking or could hear._

_"You shouldn’t have done that, William," he said in the basement, pushing me hard into the table so he could start stripping me._

_Naked, shivering, he dragged me by my throat — just enough give in his hand for me to drop the safeword — to the meat hook. Where bodies have hung to drain. Where I’ve been draped, twice before, and flogged._

_He hung me by my bound wrists and brought out the bull whip._

_He’d never used it on me before. Warned me against provoking him so much that he would._

_When it uncurled in the air, there was such poetry in it. Such grace as that thin black tongue lashed across my back. So beautiful I didn’t cry out until the second or third blow._

_"I’m sorry! I’m sorry!"_

_But he didn’t care. He lashed me until I couldn’t feel my vocal chords any more for screaming._

_"I’m sorry," I croaked again._

_"Greedy, disgusting, animal," he snarled. Crack. "That’s what you acted like. I’m surprised at you. With all your years of experience, your training. Your intelligence." Crack. "That you should act like some randy teenager." Crack. Crack. Crack. "You could have given something away. You know this —" Crack._

_"I know," I shook as I felt the blood running down my back. "The scene was just — ah — " crack — " — so — beautiful. I could think. I could_   _see Hannibal. I felt —”_

_The next lash whipped across my stomach._

_"You need to control yourself, Will," Hannibal said. "Or else you will just have the same problem with your empathy disorder you had before. But now you would be in danger of — exposing me — as well."_

_"I know. I know." I couldn’t feel my arms any longer, or my back._

_"Will?"_

_I whimpered my safeword._

_I knew. He was going to want to keep beating me though I’d dropped the safeword. He was going to turn his back to me so he could compose himself and then unhook me._

_It gave me just long enough._

_Sometimes he forgets I worked homicide. Sometimes he forgets the knife wound in my shoulder. I wasn’t passively waiting around to be stabbed when it happened._

_He simply thinks he is stronger._

_But I can be quicker._

_I’m not sure why I did it, except as a reminder to him. That no matter who he was and how dangerous he could be, I was still Will Graham. I was the best profiler the FBI had ever had for a reason. And I was not afraid of Hannibal Lecter._

_Loosed from the hook, he barely glimpsed me before I reached the light switch and the entire basement went black._

_And then his body, solid against mine. Telling him_   _sssh,_   _sssh, as we wrangled in the dark. As the bullwhip came free of his grasp and I wound it once, twice, thrice around his throat. Tightening it. Listening his is breathing grow quicker, shallower, by the minute. His body weakening beneath mine. The roar of power inside me, like a wildfire._

_The sound was vague at first, and then louder. His fingers. He was snapping his fingers._

_His safeword for when he can’t speak._

_I dropped the bullwhip and supported him while he coughed and regained his breath._

_When his blow landed it wasn’t unexpected. Though it was weak, we both toppled to the cold ground, a throbbing pile of bruising flesh._

_After awhile, I heard his laughter, black and visceral, in the dark._

_Later, after the shower which we stained fairly pink with our blood, after he’d cleaned my cuts and blisters, administered ointment and soothing touches, he said: “Very good Will.”_

_I smiled, and felt the pleasure thrumming through my body._

_"I can control my impulses. For you," I added, nipping his lower lip. Clambering into his lap, I buried my face in his hair._

_He made a very soft, very pleased noise. Careful of my back, he held me there for a long time._


	38. With His Hands (Best Handjob)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Describe the best handjob Hannibal has ever given you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Originally posted here.](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/94742811774/describe-the-best-handjob-hannibal-has-ever-given-you)

[OOC: The top portion, in italics is the “more honest” answer. The bottom is Will’s “official” answer.

 **Warnings**  for asphyxiation (consent is dubious on this), mentions of flogging.]

* * *

 

> **Describe the best handjob Hannibal has ever given you.**

 

**In His Hands**

_A surgeon’s hands._

_A killer’s hands._

_It shouldn’t have made me hard, but it did. I was halfway there with him just helping me from the car to my bedroom, and my bed. His hands, firm and gentle on my shoulders, my lower back. Stroking me, coaxing me._

_The same hands which had choked life out of other people. Which had pulled bodies apart like they were nothing._

_My cock, aching as he rubbed my thigh and studied the medications the hospital doctors had prescribed me._

_"Now don’t hide those or throw those away, Doctor Lecter," I purred, ornery even when I was still exhausted from my hospital stay and the encephalitis finally leaving my body._

_"Why would I do that, Will?"_

_"Please," I rolled my eyes. "Doctor ‘I’m know he’s sick but I’m going to see how this plays out’ Lecter. Wind up Will Graham and watch him go."_

_His jaw bunched but his hand stayed gentle on my thigh._

_He shifted closer, fingers brushing my erection, and I inhaled sharply as the sensation rippled through me._

_"Will," he said, and sounded surprised, then snorted._

_He began kissing me, slow and deep, then began to try removing my clothes. I said no. I didn’t want all my clothes off, I didn’t want to be turned over and fucked. Too tired, I mumbled, rubbing my face against his chest. If he touched me he should just use his hand._

_He kissed me again. His body warm and firm up against mine. His hand cupping my cock. Rubbing me through my jeans. His thumb hard as it pushed against the aching head of my cock through the fabric. I moaned then, and my hips bucked even though I didn’t really want them to._

_"Greedy boy," he murmured, sucked my lower lip as he unbuttoned and unzipped my jeans, and took my cock in his palm._

_I made a noise then. I shut my eyes and relished his touch, his strong, sure hand on me. Surgeon’s hand. Killer’s hand._

_At first his fingers around my throat were soft, like he was trying to cup my face. Then they tightened. I tried to mewl protest but I couldn’t breathe. When I opened my eyes his were pitiless. Distant._

_Observing what I would do._

_I gave in; what else could I do then? I was helpless beneath those hands. One as it squeezed the air out of me, the other as it wrung pleasure from my body._

_When he let go of my throat, he kissed me again, and as the air crashed back into me, his other hand tightened around me, burning, delicious, and I came, whimpering his name._

 

**With His Hands**

Two things: a) I am sexually greedy (you’ve noticed) b) Hannibal used to be a surgeon.

Between those two things you can guess I have a little bit of a  _thing_ for his hands on me, much less, his hands on my hard cock.

Because Hannibal is so skilled with his hands, pinpointing the best handjob he’s given me is a little bit like saying “oh gosh, which island in the Hawai’ian islands is the best?” while you’re vacationing there.  _They are all the fucking Hawai’ian islands and the weather is generally amazing and the fresh fish and fresh pineapple is amazing._

There aren’t bests, really, because they are all  _very_ good in my infinitely biased opinion.

Since I am having trouble pinpointing a single best, I will give you the Top Three Hits of Hannibal Lecter’s Handjobs in reverse chronological order:

  1. Uh, last night. One hand wrapped around my waist while he held me on his kitchen counter and we kissed. The other, of course, stroking my cock. He tells me I made such sweet little noises as he stroked me. His fingers first just tracing the soft skin on the shaft, then grazing the head. Then firmer, his fingers wrapping around me and twisting ever so slowly and gently. The controlled rhythm of a surgeon. Controlled as he circled the head and then stopped stroking me so he could lick the precum from his thumb, as I writhed in his grip. Controlled when he resumed stroking me, kissing me. I came not just because of his hand, though. I came mostly because his eyes never left my face. There’s nothing like the sense of power, and wonder, in gasping someone’s name and letting them see the orgasm as it rolls out of you.
  2. In the bathroom one afternoon, after he’d flogged me. I hadn’t been punished so much as I had just wanted to be flogged. Hannibal’s good with floggers, and the only person I’d ever trust with a whip (tricky bastards to master that they are). He’d dusted my ass to a fine, light pink hue, which he showed me in a mirror. I was hard from the flogging. Hannibal chuckled as he drew the bath for me and stripped his own clothes, and said something to the effect of what a fine little masochist I was.  _Damn right_ , I said.  _The best_ , he said, leaning in and taking my earlobe gently in his teeth, then biting along my shoulder. Rubbing my sensitive ass with his palm. His cock hardening against me as he reached around and took my erection in his hand. It didn’t take long, with his cock throbbing between my ass cheeks, and his hand on me, to make me come. He came quickly too, and I groaned when I felt his cum on my back, on my ass.
  3. When he brought me home from the hospital after the [encephalitis incident](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/94555776818/i-was-happy-to-read-that-you-are-doing-less-consulting). I was really too tired for much else, I was just glad to be home, glad to be there with him after everything. He laid me in my bed and I got hard, mostly because he was so gentle, and being home, with him, was so reassuring. Hannibal began touching me, gently, through my clothes. Kissing me tenderly. Rubbing me until I was hard and aching when he finally unbuttoned and unzipped my jeans and took my cock in his hand. He was so slow, meticulous, and his eyes so dark. When I finally came I was breathless for a moment, then whimpering his name as we kissed. 




	39. Twink Du Jour (On the Dinner Table)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Has Hannibal ever had you on the dinner table?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Originally posted here.](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/94744273199/has-hannibal-ever-had-you-on-the-dinner-table)

> **Has Hannibal ever had you on the dinner table?**

 

Do I love hearing Hannibal’s startled moan every time he comes in my mouth?

_But of course._

To be honest, though, I’ve had him on his dinner table more than he’s had me. (He typed, smugly, knowing he would probably get at least spanked for arrogance later in the evening.)

Hannibal approaches food with the same fervor and seriousness of a religious fanatic. Medieval mystics, with their self flagellation, fasting, and desperate devotion, would have nothing on Hannibal in regards to his dinner table and food.

Watching him prepare dinner is basically watching not just an artist at work, but  _someone making love._ When he handles meat, especially, I have been known to get hard just watching him. (And he’s banished me from the kitchen more than a few times in that state.)

So being had by him on his dinner table is, perhaps, one of the greatest compliments the man can give. In Hannibal-speak, it says:  _you are worthy of occupying and being had in the same sacred place where I eat._

Because Hannibal is  _so serious_ about his food, it’s even more fun to find ways to take him at his own dinner table, rather than waiting for him to decide if you’re worth fucking on the dinner table. I found this out pretty soon after we started being intimate together. He invited me over for dinner to celebrate. The meal was lamb, tender, very fresh, and the whole affair was a veritable orgasm in and of itself. But once the meal was cleared, dessert and all, and we sat together in the post-food-al silence, finishing our wine, I remember looking over at him and thinking: he looks so content.

Hannibal rarely has that look about him. Clean, polished, professional, aloof, distant. But not content. All his glass-sharp edges were softened for once.

I drained my wine and clambered into his lap and began kissing him. Lavishing compliments on him and his cooking as I undid his tie, unbuttoned his waistcoat. At first he seemed reluctant, but as my hands peeled away the layers of his clothing, he relaxed into my touch. Let me guide him, naked, onto the table. Watched me with a kind of lazy curiosity when I bent over to stretch and stroke my asshole open for him with my lubed fingers. I moaned his name as I did, telling him how I couldn’t wait to have his cock inside me, and how good it would feel. Then I sucked him until he tugged on my hair, saying  _Will, please._

I still had my shirt on, though half unbuttoned, as I climbed on top of him. He made a whining noise as I sank onto his hard cock (and it  _was_ good, throbbing, filling me up). I said  _ssh ssh,_ pulling off until only the tip was inside me, and then sank back onto him.

When he came he said my name, over and over, as he held my hips and thrust hard up into me.  

Later he said it was one of the finest meals he had shared in a long time. 


	40. Don't Try This at Home (Lube Substitutes)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Out of things you used as substitutes for lube, were there any odd/new/interesting experiences you can share with us?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted [here](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/94750014988/i-must-ask-if-you-havent-already-answered-this-out).

[OOC: These lists owe some of their items to the late and wonderful [Minotaur’s Sex Tips for Slash Writers](https://www.squidge.org/minotaur/classic/anal.html).

These lists are also a nod to [The Paradox Series](http://archiveofourown.org/series/28906) by wordstrings, who I fanboy tremendously. I thought there would never be a day when I would be writing my very own tale of a fucked up romance with a ~~sociopath~~  psychopath,  _but here we are._ ]

* * *

 

>   **I must ask if you haven't already answered this... Out of things you used as substitutes for lube, were there any odd/new/interesting experiences you can share with us?**

 

Anon: I am  _exactly_ the guy you want to ask this question of, because I have never been stupid and put entirely dubious things in my ass with alarming regularity.

Take note readers: do not do as Mr. Graham does.  _Please._

But in the spirit of answering this ask, I give you two lists. 

The following lists of “lubricant substitutes” (and I use that phrase  _very loosely_ ) which I have employed over the years is by no means extensive.

The first list is things which would, more or less, be okay to actually use. The second list is things you should probably not use, ever.

**The Fine List**

  1. Shampoo and/or conditioner: Hannibal uses [this shampoo](http://www.aveda.com/product/5247/16530/Collections/Rosemary-Mint/Rosemary-Mint-Shampoo/index.tmpl) quiet frequently, even if he wouldn’t admit it readily (“not expensive enough for his pretensions”). Both the shampoo and conditioner have been put to good use for both of us. I can say it makes my cock and my ass tingle most pleasantly.
  2. Olive oil (also vegetable and other cooking oils): There are few things more satisfying to me than using Hannibal’s horrifically expensive extra virgin olive oil to open him up. It’s especially ironic when we do ageplay and he pretends to be a tight, anxious little  _virgin_ , and I finger him until he is begging me to fuck him.
  3. Butter (unsalted): Trust me. Salted butter can sting in an ass that is a bit sore.
  4. Crisco: I don’t like it but it works?
  5. Soap: Self explanatory.
  6. Motor Oil: There was one memorable occasion when Hannibal had me on my kitchen table and the only thing we had was boat motor oil. When his cock entered me I nearly came right then and there, because it fairly  _glided_ in. It had such a luxurious texture to it. Unfortunately I haven’t yet persuaded Hannibal that we should use motor oil more regularly.   
  7. Sunscreen: Once, when I was in college, I had a fun afternoon with a guy I met at an outdoor pool. We made out and fucked in the showers of the pool, and the only thing we had to prep was spit and sunscreen. It was tight, it burned, but it was part of the fun, really.
  8. Spit: I call this iffy, mostly because if your bottom isn’t experienced, it’s usually going to hurt like hell to only prepare him (or her) with a bit of spit. You have to  _lavish_ your tongue on that asshole, and even then it can be difficult.



**The Not Fine List (DON’T DO THIS)**

  1. Beer or alcoholic beverages: One time I went to a party (again in college) and I ended up hooking up with a couple gentlemen who wanted to take turns fucking me. I thought:  _grand._ Unfortunately we were all young, partially drunk, and under-prepared. We had condoms, fortunately (well,  _I_ did, because I’ve never left home without since I was 16 or so). But there was no lube in reach, or adequate substitutes. Just excessive amounts of really bad beer (it  _was_ a college party). So they toasted my fine twink ass and prepped me with beer. The first time it was kind of fun, and it added some interesting sizzling sensations. But I was raw by the time the second guy climbed on. By then it just  _stung_ and then it  _hurt._  Beer is just really not thick enough to do a good job. (Though … Guinness potentially could be?)
  2. Mayonnaise: Don’t ask me how or why. Just don’t.
  3. Peanut butter: Seemed like a great idea at the time, as they say.
  4. Honey, syrup of any kind, agave nectar: Let it be known that sugar can cause all kinds of infections when inserted into warm, moist areas, especially in vaginas. (I still feel awful about this and it was nearly ten years ago.) Plus, all this stuff is sticky and not in the satisfying way human cum can be.
  5. Bananas: If you crush a banana enough, it basically liquefies. So if you’re  _desperate_ this could hypothetically work. But the resulting mush is so disgusting you probably won’t be aroused for very long. I wasn’t. Neither was my partner at the time.
  6. Home-made Tabasco Sauce hidden in a bottle labeled Worchester Sauce: I won’t recount the agonizing details, except to say: please make sure you carefully label food items in your kitchen, especially if you ever use any items from said pantry as “substitute lubricant”. I can’t even look at a bottle of Tabasco sauce without my ass clenching in unhappy recollection. 




	41. Like a Good Boy (Daddy play)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "It was rude and I would take my punishment like a good boy."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by [this post](http://homoette.tumblr.com/post/95134681450/bend-over-the-desk-will-wanted-to-beg-for). 
> 
> [Originally posted here.](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/95145625128/homoette-bend-over-the-desk-will-wanted-to)

I knew better than to say naughty things about Daddy’s tastes in wine, even if I was angry and tired after a really long day. I knew better than to tell him he was being silly. It didn’t matter that I wasn’t really angry with Daddy and he knew that. It was rude and I would take my punishment like a good boy, a better boy than one who snaps at Daddy because he’s tired.

Daddy might have had to ask me to bend over the table, but he didn’t have to ask me to unbuckle my belt, or take off my pants and underwear.

"I’m sorry Daddy," I whispered and closed my eyes, cheek resting against the cool wood grain.

Every time Daddy hit me it was like a bright red star. Daddy’s hands were so big and strong and heavy. Even though it hurt I only cried out a little. Daddy is never harder on me than I deserve.

Daddy stopped when it started to hurt too much — he always knows because I can’t help but whimper. My bottom is so sore then and I know it will hurt to sit, but I deserved that.

I was hard too, and my cock bumped the desk when Daddy let me stand. Daddy wouldn’t like that I had gotten hard and I sulked.

"Will," he began, and then he noticed my hard cock. I couldn’t even look at Daddy but I knew he wasn’t happy.

"I’m sorry Daddy."

"As you should be. Did it feel good to be a bad boy? Did it feel so good that your punishment didn’t even work?”

"No Daddy, no. I just love your big strong hands on me Daddy."

"Over the desk," Daddy said.

He spread me out so wide on that desk with his fingers and some spit. Those fingers were so strong and thick, and it stung. But I didn’t cry. I was a good boy. I tried to be a good boy even when I felt Daddy’s big, thick cock rub against me, but Daddy held me down and I was scared.

"Daddy?" I whispered.

"Do you want Daddy to be gentle?"

"Yes Daddy. Please."

"If you had been better behaved, then Daddy would be gentle."

"Please Daddy," I said, as he pushed his cock into me. It was so big.

"Daddy, your cock is too big," I moaned. "Daddy it’s too big for me. Please Daddy, I said I’m sorry —"

Daddy spanked me again and told me to hush.

Daddy fucked me like the bad boy I was. He fucked me with his big, thick cock, until the desk was shaking. Until I felt like I was going to split in two. I sobbed when Daddy pushed all the way in.

"Do you like this Will?"

"Daddy," I cried. "Please —"

Daddy pushed my face into the desk and fucked me like the rude, filthy, naughty boy I was. When Daddy came he didn’t even come inside me. He pulled out, yanked up my shirt, and came on my back.

I curled up on the desk and cried for awhile. I was a bad boy and Daddy didn’t love me. I was so disgusting he wouldn’t even come inside me. He just used me.

"I’m sorry Daddy," I said again.

"Oh Will," Daddy said, and I knew by his tone Daddy wasn’t angry any more.

Daddy wiped off my back and scooped me up. He sat on the couch, rocking me and telling me I was a good boy, I had made Daddy very pleased, taking his cock the way I did. He didn’t like my rudeness, but I was still a good, good boy. My bad behavior did not mean I was bad. It made me so happy to snuggle against Daddy’s chest and feel him stroke my hair and tell me what a good boy I really was.

Later, he drew me a bubble bath and rubbed my sore bottom until it felt so much better. He even put his cock in me again — this time in my mouth, I love to make Daddy feel good that way — and when he came inside me I swallowed like a good boy, and cooed  _Oh Daddy_  and  _I love it when you’re inside me Daddy_.


	42. It was . . . Intimate (Golden Showers)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This happened because I was like "I really don't understand watersports" and homoette nicely explained it to me. Which made me go "ooooooh".
> 
> Originally posted [here](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/95231709043/it-was-intimate).

[Aside from the agreement I made with Hannibal regarding this blog](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/94130413093/the-truth-and-all-its-consequences), I suspected I wouldn't come out otherwise unscathed.

Exhibit A: [this ask on watersports](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/94381353033/are-you-or-were-you-ever-into-water-sports-if-not) had me wondering about . . . the possibilities. I've never done watersports, but maybe that had less to do with the smell of dog urine than it was because I've rarely been in a relationship where I felt I could be entirely myself, where I felt entirely  _safe_. There was [James for a little while](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/94170012588/would-you-ever-consider-hooking-up-with-trans-men) and now there is Hannibal.

Being with James felt like backpacking vacation which you never want to end. You're wearing the same underwear for the third day in a row, your hair is unwashed, and you have no idea where you're going to end up by nightfall. You don't know if you'll get a bath, what kind of meals you'll have between sunrise and sunset. The world is an open road and you just let it lead you along.

It's thrilling but after awhile all roads look the same, and you tire of being greasy and unwashed, and all you really want is not bad gas station coffee, but real coffee, and eggs, and cream, and to wake up someplace soft, and to know where you'll go by the end of the day.

I enjoyed James because he taught me things about myself I wouldn't otherwise know, but there were plenty of things he didn't lure me into. And there came a time when we weren't any longer compatible because I just needed something less . . . perpetually adventuresome.

Being with Hannibal is like reaching the edge of the thorny woods after a dark, cold night, and finding all the lights in your house on. There's a fire burning low, and the tea kettle is whistling, and the dogs are all asleep, and the world is all warmth, calm, and quiet. Hannibal feels like home in ways that James never did, even though we've only known each other a little less than a year. 

So when I started thinking of Hannibal  _pissing_ on me, I didn't giggle hysterically. Not for long, at least. Some people do get off on that stuff, I thought, and who was I, wanton slut-twink-boy, to judge?

After awhile though the idea began to have some appeal. It wasn't the urine part so much as. Well. Hannibal is  _safe._

But I didn't broach the notion of watersports until last night. We were both  _aching_ with a bad case of the Mondays, as I call them. Me, from the endless staff and faculty meetings as we all prepare for the upcoming semester. Sharing cups of stale coffee and mindless prattle that passes for politeness among colleagues -- it's a kind of purgatory I wish upon no one. The talks about budgets and maintaining standards in a changing world are  _extremely_  compelling too.

Hannibal had a rough day with a patient, and even if he doesn't like to show it, sometimes his job does take a toll on him.

So when we met at Hannibal's house for dinner, we were mostly too tired for anything. We didn't talk much, we just ate, and then we went upstairs for a shower to relax. Of course, my idea of relaxation is also kneeling and giving Hannibal a slow, sloppy blow job. Sex tends to help me feel less . . . tightly wound. And it helps all the noise in my head to dissipate. It was comforting too, running my hands up and down Hannibal's taut belly, raking my fingers through his chest and stomach hair, feeling his cock, slippery and soft, in my mouth. The low inhalations of breath he made as I massaged his ass and sucked his balls. I was on my knees for a good ten minutes just sucking and touching him. Though my cock was so hard it fairly hissed, he only got about halfway there and before softening again.   

"I'm sorry Will," he said. "I'm too tired."

"That's fine," I said, because it was. It won't be the first or the last time one of us couldn't get hard.

"Does it feel good though?" I asked.

"Yes," he said, uneasily.

"But?"

"I have to . . . urinate."

"Have you needed to piss for long?" I snorted.

Hannibal made a noise which told me he meant  _yes_ but he didn't want to confirm that for fear of seeming rude, because I'd been so dedicatedly lavishing his cock. My waterlogged, exhausted Doctor, I thought, affection warming every part of me as I took my cock in hand and stroked myself.

"Why don't you . . . piss on me?" I asked and my voice grew husky, my cock even harder.

Hannibal's eyes darkened, but he hesitated.

"It's okay," I said. "I want you to. If you want to."

"Do you want me . . . to urinate in your mouth?" he asked, stroking my wet hair.

"No," I moaned, squeezing my cock. "On my chest and throat. But not the face, if you can avoid it."

"Of course," he said gently, running his thumb over my lower lip while I ran my fingers through his coarse belly hair. 

"Please Hannibal, I want you to," I groaned, my thumb working over the slick, throbbing head of my cock.

Hannibal actually moaned a little as he took his own cock in hand. His piss was warmer than the shower water for a few seconds, cascading over my throat, down my shoulders. And though the contact was gentle and brief, it still felt like an electric current going through me. My hand tightened on my cock. I was wet, trembling, utterly vulnerable, as I looked up at him. When he looked down at me there was no disgust, no judgment. Only love. He looked at me like I was a priceless piece of art, the way no one has ever really looked at me.

I came with a jolt, whimpering his name.   

"Beautiful boy," Hannibal said as he toweled me off after. "I . . . very much enjoyed that Will. Thank you."

"I enjoyed it too," I said, hugging him close. "It was . . . intimate."

"Would you want to do it again?" Hannibal asked.

"Yes," I said. "Yes." 


	43. And Powerful (Fisting)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ever tried\considered trying fisting?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted [here](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/96104076828/ever-tried-considered-trying-fisting).

> **homoette asks: ever tried\considered trying fisting?**

 

To be frank, I was terrified of fisting for awhile. Still am in some ways, because you can do a lot of damage if you’re not careful.

I first tried it with [the infamous James](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/94170012588/would-you-ever-consider-hooking-up-with-trans-men). We were, at the time, having relationship issues. The relationship was at an end, really, but we were in denial about it and part of our last ditch effort to rescue the relationship was … fisting.

I wasn’t exactly keen on having him shove his hand in my ass, so I did the honors.

I almost backed out when he said he wanted me to fist his front hole. For those not in the know: James was a trans man, and he had been on testosterone for some years. Because of that, his front hole was rather sensitive. He had to use an estrogen cream to keep things from tearing too much, basically, or bleeding. I was scared I would hurt him.

But he begged me and finally I just said “okay”.  He coaxed me through it: first getting him to come, so he’d be wet and relaxed, then getting him even wetter with some very thick lube, then coating my gloved hand, then pushing said hand, one finger at a time, into him. It was a long process and I remember feeling very strange, as if I were outside of my body and just watching as my hand slowly, slid into him, until my palm fit inside him and I could feel him trying not to clench around me. I remember stroking the small of his back and telling him to relax even though I didn’t really care in some ways.

I think I might have recognized then, at that vulnerable and really inopportune moment, that we were done as a couple, so I checked out a little.

James said later that I did great and he loved it, but there was an emptiness to the way he said it.

Then of course, there was Hannibal.

After the experience with James I never really thought about fisting that much until Hannibal brought it up. It was around Valentine’s day, and the only way I can remember is because I remember thinking:  _ah, fisting for Valentine’s day, how romantic._

We were making dinner at Hannibal’s house and Hanniba asked me if I had done fisting before. I said yes and I hadn’t really enjoyed it. Hannibal, being Hannibal, asked me more questions and got me to admit it wasn’t just the idea of hurting someone else which terrified me, but the idea of someone else doing that to me. The intimacy of it, I think he said. At that point he had his chest pressed to my back, under the pretense of helping me with shape some dumplings. But his body was warm, his hand on my hip was heavy and reassuring, and his voice reverberating through me made my cock throb.

"I would love to have you laid out for me. So trusting, so relaxed, with my hand inside you," he said. "If you wanted me to."

"Yeah," I heard myself say. "Okay."

It was very different with Hannibal. There was no begging or pleading with me. No wheedling. There was no reason for us to try this except that Hannibal wanted it and I would give it. There was nothing to rescue.

I think for these reasons I felt better about saying  _yes_  to Hannibal than I had to James.

So the night we tried it the first time, we were in my house, in Wolf Trap, and it was still cold enough that I had a fire going in the fireplace. First Hannibal gave me a massage, full body, his firm hands working over me until I was limp. Well, save for one notable exception. He sucked me off slowly, fingering me open as he did, urging my legs wide and wider. He made me come that way the first time, and then a second time by turning me over, rubbing my ass, pulling my cheeks open, and licking me until I was writhing. Still, he teased me with his fingers, his mouth, a few dildos, making sure I was wet and relaxed enough to start taking his hand. Not the whole hand of course, but just a few fingers at first, and then three, and four, and five, his thumb stretching me open so wide I gasped.

"Are you all right?" he whispered, kissing the small of my back.

"Yes," I managed. "Yes."

It must have been late at night, and very dark, when I finally felt the last curve of his palm sink into me, and he was down to his wrist, inside me. We were both sweating, though neither of us was really moving. My flesh felt thin as an eggshell and ready to crack with the fullness of Hannibal inside me.

"Hannibal," I whimpered in the dark.

"I’m here," he said, wrapping his free arm around me, kissing my shoulder.

I said something about being so full, and arched back into him a little, enjoying the feeling of my body around his hand. He moved his fingertips just a little and rubbed my prostrate, and I was sobbing from the pleasure, the fullness.

"Breathe Will," he said, kissing the back of my neck, rubbing my stomach with his free hand.

When I had calmed a little he began to stroke my cock, his hand still in me. When I came, it was potent. Not the orgasm itself, so much, but the feeling of having him inside me. Of allowing him to do that. Of taking so much of him inside me that it could have hurt, but it didn’t. I just felt full, and powerful.

He pulled out as slowly as he had gone in, and then once he’d disposed of the glove he’d used, he came back and messaged me again, just barely rubbed at my wet, stretched hole. I think it was to check that there was no tearing or bleeding.

I lay on my side for a long time, eyes closed, still feeling the burn and fullness of him inside me, and the power of that.  

Finally, he asked: “Will?”

"Mmm hmm," I said. "I … liked that." I managed.

I could feel Hannibal’s smile in his kiss, though I couldn’t see it.

Though we haven’t done it again, I hope we will. I would rather like experiencing that with him again. 


	44. Would You Fuck You?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I want you to take a long, hard look in the mirror, and ask yourself this one question- would you fuck you?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Originally posted here](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/96174740078/i-want-you-to-take-a-long-hard-look-in-the-mirror-and).

 

 

> **I want you to take a long, hard look in the mirror, and ask yourself this one question- would you fuck you?**
> 
>  

I am aroused by the idea of other people  _watching me_ have sex, and having pictures and video taken of me having sex with someone, but I am not sure I dwell on the idea of whether or not I would fuck me. If I had had less sleep or more to drink, I’d wonder if that was some kind of incest.  
  
So I’m going to let Hannibal finish my answer for me:  
  
 _Hello “homoette”. I can assure you that despite the fact that dear Will sometimes has self esteem issues which he will not himself broach, and often sees himself, unnecessarily, as “broken”, he is extremely handsome, and becoming, both bared and clothed. I can testify personally that he turns the most exquisite shades of crimson when he is spread out under me, and he makes the most endearing and arousing sounds when he is in my care. (Even when he is being impudent. Maybe especially then.)_  
  
 _I have, at times, had Will while we were in front of a mirror and tried to help him see just how lovely he can be, but he has a tendency to exclude or ignore that information, or, he was, quite simply, preoccupied with other … matters … at the time._  
  
 _I hope someday Will will be able to answer this question in the affirmative. Until that day I will continue working with him and coaxing him towards that._

_Sincerely,_

_Hannnibal_

 

tags: #i liked the mirror thing very much #because then i could see your face #dear doctor #as you slid into me #you looked like you were in heaven #honestly how could i take my eyes off of that?


	45. Spit or Swallow?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Spit or swallow?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Originally posted here.](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/96176631433/ooc-i-got-an-anon-to-my-main-blog-which-asked)

[OOC: I got an anon to my main blog which asked "spit or swallow?" I forgot I had reblogged a post which asked people to submit asks that were so filthy you wouldn't actually answer. So I answered it in character. And posted it. And realized it was not for this blog. 

But then I wrote all this stuff, so I might as well post it. We will pretend anon visited.]

* * *

 

> **Spit or swallow?**

Swallow, of course. 

Unless Hannibal wants otherwise. 

One time he came in my mouth rather quickly. We’d been  _burning_ for each other most of the day, but had been so busy with a case we hadn’t had the opportunity to get our hands on each other. The minute we had a moment I was on my knees with my mouth around his cock.   
  
Afterwards, I had his cum, warm and sulfuric in my mouth, and was preparing to swallow when Hannibal grabbed my hair to stop me. His voice trembled just a little when he asked me to show him what a  _greedy, wanton little cum whore_  I was.   
  
Hannibal plays the role of romantic gallant well, but he has one of the dirtiest mouths I’ve ever encountered. He  _loves_  talking dirty, but he does it in such a way it sounds like poetry. When he talks dirty, words that sound filthy, crude, and cheesy — like they’re from a porno — are softened by his gentle tone and his accent. The words come out delicate, and they feel like feathers teasing my skin until I’m shivering and aching for more.  
  
So when he asked me to show him what a  _greedy, wanton little cum whore_ I was -- I moaned, close mouthed, through the warm mouthful he’d just given me. I opened my mouth for him and he ran is fingers around my lips, and then slid them into my mouth. He leaned down and he kissed me, tasting with his tongue. He grew hard again — that was how badly we’d wanted each other — and with his cum still cooling on my tongue, he pressed his cock to my lips, and I could feel the slick, hot, fresh precum dripping from it. And then he pushed his cock into my open, wanton mouth and face fucked me until he came again. 


	46. Too Far (The Mongoose and The Ripper)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You're pretty heavy into kink stuff, have you or a partner ever gone "too far"?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Originally posted here.](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/96368356308/youre-pretty-heavy-into-kink-stuff-have-you-or-a)

[ OOC: The first half is Will’s “official” answer, the second half is the juicy details he is withholding.

This is super dark and fucked up.  **Warnings for:**  threatening use of a gun, gore, Will getting hard over really questionable things, violent/rough sex, hitting/punching, self loathing, Will being super scary and messed up.

As an aside: I definitely don’t endorse this behavior in real life!

A follow-up post from Hannibal's point of view follows in the next chapter.]

* * *

 

> **You're pretty heavy into kink stuff, have you or a partner ever gone "too far"?**

 

**The Mongoose**

Once, anon, and I am not proud of myself for it. 

I’ve mentioned my empathy disorder in past posts, but I haven’t really discussed what it means to have an empathy disorder in the bedroom, so to speak.

Empathy is one of those useful things you need to be a functional adult, psychologically speaking. I could bore you with the blah blah blah psychobabble which I’ve spent years reading and studying for my work, and then personally being subjected to by people who had almost the same credentials I did, and still thought they knew  _my_  psychology better.

Basically healthy empathy is like an elastic band. You can extend yourself — stretch out — to encompass another person. But you will always return back to what you were. Your boundaries fit back into place and you are just you again.

I am a broken band. I stretch far and wide and then I have trouble going back to what I was. Sometimes I snap and I’m drowning in empathy to the point where I can have trouble distinguishing another person’s thoughts and feelings from my own.

At times my ability to empathize so completely is great in the bedroom. What guy, when with a woman for the first time and presented with the “mysteries” of female anatomy and orgasm, wouldn’t want to be able to fully empathize with their partner, to know that if he kept moving his thumb in delicate figure 8’s over her clit that she would come very hard and loud? And wouldn’t it be nice to hold a new lover in your arms and emotionally  _feel_  your way to the parts of their body they most wanted to be touched, and kissed? When working in a scene, wouldn’t it make it easier in some ways to empathize with your sub and _feel_  when they were about to break? Or when they could take more?

Yes, my empathy is useful in many ways, and if I never did the work I did I probably wouldn’t have the problems I do.

I profile killers. When I consult, I go look at a fresh scene and try to piece together a profile based on existing evidence. That’s when the empathy disorder is worst — as you can imagine. But even when I’m just in my usual job, teaching, and warming a desk, I still have to look and files and photographs of killers and evaluate.

These killers are not like most people. They’re seriously damaged and their pathology doesn’t just fall off the “normal” end of the spectrum, but pretty much obliterates said spectrum. So I empathize with these killers, and I end up bringing that home with me.

Imagine Ted Bundy with you right before he snaps. Yes, he seems like a nice guy. Up until the moment he is not.

That’s me.

And one time, I completely lost it with Hannibal, of all people.

Hannibal says that, in my job, I am like a mongoose who goes after the snakes. He tells me I shouldn’t be afraid of my “gifts”, but that I should embrace this part of myself as fully as I have so many other things which are perhaps rather dubious. While I usually do feel better and more stable with Hannibal, I don’t always believe him when he tells me these things.

In the spring there was a really rough case — a whole sounder of fresh bodies — and I was called in to consult. And when I got home to Hannibal’s house, I was full of  _everything_  from the case. It felt like my whole body was thin skin stretched over a buzzing, black mass of wasps. I wanted nothing more than to leave my body, and all the sensations and feelings that the empathy overload was giving me.

So Hannibal and I did a scene, I guess you could say — because we really didn’t plan it, it just happened. But sometimes doing a scene helps orient me. Usually I sub because then Hannibal can paddle, flog, whip, cane, bite, scratch — whatever gets me to come back to myself — and I have control because I can use my safeword if it’s too much. (The really frightening thing is: it is never really  _enough_  for me, and if Hannibal weren’t afraid of hurting me, I’d want him to go further.)

But that night Hannibal “subbed” for me.

I tied him up to a chair. I lost track of time. I didn’t have any boundaries. And when finally I realized there was something  _very_ wrong, Hannibal was on his back, on the floor, his face bloodied, while I sat astride him. My knuckles were split open and bleeding from hitting Hannibal over and over again.

I haven’t been allowed to basically dom Hannibal since. We both have agreed until I have more comfort and control with my headspace that I shouldn’t.

 

**The Ripper**

_It was all there and I couldn’t_ believe  _no one else could see it._

_Each of the bodies dumped at a different location, but each one with the heart carved out and a sprig of fresh mistletoe stuck in its place._

_Most would identify mistletoe as a parasitic plant, but I knew better in this context._

_Hannibal — with his arms wrapped around me, his warm hands and mouth on me — once said, lovingly, fondly:_ mistletoe is symbiotic, really _. And I’d laughed at the time, told him to stop being pretentious. Kissed him and stroked his cock until he arched up, panting, moaning_ please, please let me come dear Will.

_"You okay?" Beverly asked me, while I stared at the gaping cavern cut into the first man’s chest, the mistletoe there._

_Because I couldn’t trust myself not to laugh out of panic, I nodded._

_"Is it the Ripper?" Jack asked again._

_I shook my head, still trying not to laugh._

_"No, it’s …" I struggled. "Something else."_

_And that was close enough to the truth. He wasn’t just the Ripper anymore. He was transforming, evolving. Becoming something else. Something had changed him. Something profound._

_I knew that much as I drove to Hannibal’s home, in the dark, with the rain falling cold and sharp as ice. I was shaking with rage when he met me at the door._

_"What the fuck, Hannibal?" I snarled once the front door was shut behind me. "Are you fucking kidding me? Do you know what kind of position you’ve put me in?"_

_I had him pinned against the wall, though he was bigger, my rage made me stronger — and entirely unpredictable — for the time being._

_"Answer me!" I slapped him._

_He sneered. “You of all people should know and appreciate what I’ve done for you, Will.”_

_I laughed, finally. “Oh that’s great. That’s just great. Because when Jack finally catches you he’s going to ask me if I knew, and then what? Then fucking what?” I punctuated each word with a slap._

_"You know I won’t be caught —"_

_"If it was that easy for me to_ see  _it, it’s only a matter of time —”_

_Hannibal pursed his lips, irritatingly smug._

_"Will, you’re not worried about us being caught —"_

_"There is no ‘us’ in this part of it Hannibal. I turn a blind eye. I don’t go killing people!"_

_"What’s really troubling you, Will?"_

_His words were so soft, so comforting and only angered me all the more._

_Because he was right._

_"Did looking at my work get you hard, Will?" he asked, still soft._

_"Shut up, you arrogant asshole," I snapped, hauling him by the hair down to the basement, where I tied him to a metal chair._

_"Since you like games so much, let’s play a little game, Doctor," I said, drawing my sidearm, and caressing the side of his face with it. "Tell me the truth, or I will shoot you."_

_Hannibal cocked his head and looked genuinely worried._

_"Will, I think you should calm —"_

_I pressed the gun to the top of his thigh and flipped the safety off. If I pulled the trigger, it would certainly blast through his femoral artery, and he would bleed out before anyone could save him, much less me._

_Hannibal’s eyes turned dark with fear._

_"Good," I whispered, the power roaring in me. The power I’d contained in my body all day, since visiting the first scene. The black swarm of wasps inside me, hissing, wanting to be let loose._

_There had been three bodies, their hearts all carved out. Lovingly, carefully. The victims hadn’t even suffered. They’d been unconscious when it was done — almost as if he wasn’t a sadist after all. Almost polite. There’d also been an eroticism about these killings that had been absent from the other Ripper killings. Not anything profane like semen at the scene, or overt sexual violence. But their bodies had still been hot as he’d penetrated them, reaching inside and taking. Reaching inside again and leaving the mistletoe. Like he’d reached inside a lover, deep, and left a part of himself._

_He’d worn gloves of course, and the plastic suit, so the blood which coated his hands and forearms wouldn’t ever touch him. But he’d so wanted to take off the suit, the gloves, and feel the heat of that blood against his skin. Like the heat of his lover beneath him only that morning, sweating, trembling as he sank slowly into him. That man’s skin heavenly and white as the skin of these now dead bodies. His lips red as their bloody, dripping hearts._

_He’d been all over each scene, each body, just like he’d been all over me earlier that morning. I could practically_ taste  _and_ feel  _him: his hands, his mouth, his cock, his cum. By the time I got to the scene with the third body, I’d grown so hard that I pretended to be sick in the bathroom, so I could jerk off while whispering his name._

_Standing that bathroom, looking at my cum in my hands, hearing the echoes of his name in the stale bathroom stall, my body thrumming with the anticipation of seeing the last body: there it all was. Some thirty odd years of what therapists couldn’t place about my disorder, about my voracious sexual appetites._

Displacement _, that irritating, smug idiot Chilton had once said when he thought I wasn’t listening._

_To paraphrase his conclusions: with all those distasteful thoughts in my head, it stands to reason I would be such a slut. I had to get the energy out somehow. And I didn't do it by killing people._

_That’s one theory, at least._

_But in those three bodies, in Hannibal's three victims, I could feel his yearning and his adoration for me. I was flooded with it until I could barely breathe. I was still drowning in it hours later, down in his basement, as I pointed my gun at him._

_"Why did you kill those people? Why did you do that?" I was trembling, sweating._

_"You know why Will," Hannibal said gently. "It was my tribute to you."_

_"Am I a fucking parasite to you?" I pressed the gun to his temple._

_"You know better than that Will."_

_He looked at me, open, vulnerable._

_I clicked the safety back on and put the gun down._

_Hannibal relaxed._

_"You’re the mistletoe," I whispered._

_Hannibal nodded._

_"I thrive on you …" he left the rest of the words unsaid._

_And he looked at me — me, a man who had gotten hard at a crime scene his own partner had created, like it was some kind of romantic gesture and not a sick murder — with love. Like he had never loved another with such honesty, sincerity, and purpose, as he did me._

_I wanted to cut his eyes out._

_I was filth. I was nothing. Always had been. Always would be. What kind of sick, abnormal fuck could empathize with a man like this, much less?_

_"I fucking hate you," I said. "I fucking hate you. I fucking hate that I understand you. I fucking hate that I love you."_

_I slapped him. I untied him and tore his clothes off and forced his legs open. I fucked him raw on the cold floor, thrusting hard and telling him how much I hated him, how much I wanted to kill him for doing this to me._

_The blood was red against his face, against my pale knuckles._

_I was filth. I was nothing._

_When he turned his face to me I sometimes saw him. He smiled through his blood. And sometimes I saw myself through his eyes. Beautiful, violent, dangerous. His mongoose. I’d felt how he submitted to me, even as it hurt when I drove my cock into him. Even as I hit him, again and again. He surrendered to me completely, utterly._

_He would give his life for me, like this. He would let me beat him to death if it meant I came out well and whole. If I could stop hating myself for what I felt, what I was._

_"Goddamit Hannibal," I said._

_I sat astride him, but I began shaking and bawling like a lost child._

_"You’re beautiful, Will."_

_That only made me ache all the more, and cry harder. A hysterical snuffling and whimpering, really, that would have been funny if it hadn’t been bottled up inside me for so long. Years maybe. I can’t be sure._

_The snuffling and whimpering subsided, though I continued to cry silently, blinking through my tears as I gathered him in my arms. I was still crying as I took him to the kitchen, where I washed the blood off his face and put cold compresses there. Crying as I helped him up to the stairs to his bathroom. Crying as I drew a bath and washed his body, tears and kisses falling hot on his bruises. Crying as I held him against me with one arm, water dampening my jeans and shirt while I kissed his shoulder. Crying as my other hand tenderly worked between his thighs, cleaning some of the blood and checking for any bad tears. Crying still as he lay on his bed, legs spread and allowing me to carefully work some vitamin E cream inside him._

_"You’re unusually terrible at this tonight Will," Hannibal said, slurring around a split lip. He was trying to be funny, to break the mood. But I winced._

_I ran my hand down his spine — gorgeous, strong, muscular — and felt grounded by the heat and realness of him. He was there. I’d hurt him. But he was still there. His presence gave me the strength to finally, finally, be honest._

_"I hate hating myself," I admitted. "I hate fighting myself all the time, Hannibal."_

_He rolled onto his back. It took him a moment to find a comfortable way to sit, but when he did he gathered me to him._

_"I know you do, Will," he said, stroking my hair. And then: "What do you think is to be done about that?"_

_"I don’t know," I said, holding him and being held by him. "Just … keep holding me, okay?"_

_"Always," he said._

_In the morning his face was the color of a sunset: red and purple and gold. He had to reschedule his appointments for a week, claiming he had the flu. I called in for the week too, saying I’d gotten the flu from Hannibal._

_We retreated to my house, that warm ember in a dark landscape, and spent the time cradling one another. I apologized to him over and over until he finally said “Stop, Will,” and then: “It’s done.”_

_His face and body healed, but I didn’t quite believe him._


	47. A Cup Shall Come Together

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A postlude on the last chapter/post. Hannibal's point of view.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Originally posted here.](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/96382715223/a-cup-will-come-together-hannibals-pov)

[OOC: Man [that last post was intense](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/96368356308/youre-pretty-heavy-into-kink-stuff-have-you-or-a). I thought some more cool down was needed.

This is Hannibal's point of view because he obviously sees what Will cannot. It takes place during their week of convalescence at Will's home, after the previous (and above linked) post.

No warnings on this one, just fluff.]

* * *

_You disappoint me, Will._

_Were I prone to romantic clichés, I would say you "break my heart". Thrice-fold, you break it. First because you cannot trust me. Second because you lie to me. Third because you do not trust yourself, and you therefore lie to yourself._

_Three hearts, carved from unworthy vessels and brought forward to you in offering, beloved. To nourish  you. To give you life._

_But you did not want these._

_I watch you rise in the early mornings, groaning in empathy when you see my face._  It's only bruises, dear Will, _I whisper, grabbing your wrist and drawing you close. Close enough to see the dark ring of lavender in the center of your irises. To press my lips to your face, finding the beauty mark and the constellation of freckles on the left side, kissing each one._

_I would tell you that I love you, but those words are ash. Meaningless. They are ephemeral. Temporary. They will be swept away by time, by memory._

_What I feel for you should be carved into the very bedrock of this earth. Should be written in the chemistry of the stars. Should buzz, electric, in the dim, distant noise that is the awakening of this universe, the explosion that created all of time and space._

_Permanent. Unshifting. I am the stone and you are the water and you will wear at me over time, but I will still be there._

_I draw you down close, closer._

_But still you do not want this._

_You are afraid._

_I watch you go to your dogs and relax into their warmth and their easy adoration. I know why you like them. They reflect so much goodness back to you._

_If only you could see your goodness though. I see it. In the night, when you rise so quietly as not to wake me. When you bring me my coffee with only a touch of cream and sugar, exactly the way I require it. You've never had to ask a second time. You simply remembered._

_I see your beauty and your goodness when you apologize to me, repeatedly, with words and with touches. On your knees, taking me in deep into your mouth, pleasuring me until I ache only for you and for the release your mouth can give me._

_Yes, this is goodness dear boy. Though you feign indifference, use bawdy words and shrug it off as coarseness or profanity. You are an adroit actor, playing whatever role suits the situation best, and I adore this about you._

_But you do not want to see these things in yourself. You are afraid of yourself. You say you hate yourself. You say you are broken._

_You wouldn't even see yourself in the mirror when I had you this morning, in the bathroom. You looked, just as I commanded, but you did not_ see _._

_I whispered to you: "Let's play a game, dear Will. It's my turn."_

_You complied, I think, because you thought I would bring blows down on you. That I would split you open as you had split me open earlier in the week._

_Instead I nuzzled you, breathing in the warm scent of you, delivered fresh from bed, from sleep. I touched your sides and ran my hands over your chest and shoulders. I cradled your body to mine and slowly palmed your t-shirt and boxer-briefs off. Oh, how you trembled in my grasp, waiting for the blows that didn't come. Your nipples were dark and red as raspberries as I rubbed and then licked them. Your skin the color of the inside of an almond, the flesh pale and exposed beneath the darker surface. Your cock was pungent and heavy against my tongue as I took you in my mouth. I looked up at you then. Your eyes were shut, your lips half open.  I pulled off and said: "Will, look at yourself. Look in the mirror."_

_"Mmm," you murmured, not opening your eyes._

_"Will," I said, making my voice so soft you would have to strain to listen and there would be no argument. "You will look at yourself as I pleasure you. I want you to. I want you to see yourself and how beautiful you are."_

_Your jaw bunched with resistance, but finally, you said: "Okay," and looked._

_I couldn't see what you were looking at, so I considered myself satisfied because you had done as ordered. So I foolishly gave myself over to ravishing you with my mouth._

_I wish my memory of working my way between your legs, to the backs of your thighs, and just parting you gently was -- untainted. I wish the dark, lewd, hot taste of you wasn't tainted either, and I could revel in the recollection of the sounds you made as I used my tongue on you._

_It was some time -- I made sure of that, yes -- opening you with my tongue and then my fingers, until you were pushing down against me, your face bathed in sweat -- glorious, glorious -- and said: "Please, Hannibal."_

_The anticipation of being inside you was nearly unbearable, but I reined myself, sinking slowly into your body. I sighed against your throat._

_Perhaps too, I should not have looked into the mirror before us._

_There you were, flush, resplendent, breathing heavily, eyes dark. You were watching my face in the mirror as I moved inside you and you made soft, shattering sounds of pleasure._

_It hurt me Will._

_As much as I enjoy your gaze on me, you were not seeing yourself. Even when I gripped your chin to redirect you, your eyes went to a point that wasn't you, but rather to some unfocused point, somewhere else._

_When we both came, your eyes were shut again._

_You are afraid, even when your body is bared and open to me._

_You think you are broken._

. . . 

_Sometimes I think you are like a teacup, shattered on the kitchen floor._

_All that I ask is you collect yourself and come back together._

_And someday -- I have faith in you Will -- you shall._

_You shall._


	48. Mood Kills

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Have you ever managed to completely kill the mood when you were with a partner? For whatever reason?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Originally posted here.](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/96544613103/have-you-ever-managed-to-completely-kill-the-mood-when)

 

> **Have you ever managed to completely kill the mood when you were with a partner? For whatever reason?**

When you have as much sex as I do, your chances of spoiling the mood increase significantly. Conversely, you learn how to handle it, I suppose, because like death and taxes, spoiling the mood is something many of us encounter. At this point I usually just pick up and keep moving and can usually salvage the mood — and then some — but sometimes it’s lost but good, at least for that moment.

Because three is a good number, easy to remember, here’s three incidents where it was lost but good: one sad, one a bit of a tragicomedy, and one just ridiculous.  

  1. After [James](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/94170012588/would-you-ever-consider-hooking-up-with-trans-men) and I broke up — even if it was the right thing to do — I was an emotional wreck. So of course I had enough rebound fucks to make my body a proverbial revolving door. A revolving door for a series of cute, androgynous men who were all flamingly queer, and not at all like James. I knew none of their names, but a few  _were_  actually turned on if I accidently said “James” as we had sex. Most ignored it if it happened. But a couple guys were gravely offended for whatever reason. Most memorably the guy who — I stupidly let him convince me to fuck me bareback — and was thrusting hard enough to make me taste blood in the back of my mouth. I moaned “James” and the guy grunted and came early, out of sheer distaste or alarm, and told me I was a “fucked up whore” and left me, spread eagled, with his cum leaking out of me, before I had half processed what happened. I’d never really been called a “fucked up whore”, and I actually did feel ashamed of myself. In retrospect I was a wreck, but I wonder how much of his reaction had to do with my mistake, really.
  2. In college there was a girl who worked at local bookstore and who was studying to be a tattoo artist. Her tattoos were beautiful, and she had a wickedly fast sense of humor — it was fun to try and keep up with her. We ended up at her apartment one night, and I had her open, wet, moaning for me to put my cock in her, please, because I’d sucked and licked her to an orgasm, and then fingered her to a second one. I was shaking pretty badly as I slid inside her — she was so wet I nearly came then and there — but I held myself back. I tried. I really really really tried. I really really really tired not to thrust into her so hard her head hit the headboard. We ended up in an emergency care center that night, because she was very dizzy. Nothing like a mild concussion to kill the mood. (We had sex again, after about a week. And then for six months after. Miraculously she ended up finding the whole thing very funny, and I helped her fulfill her fantasy of having a threesome with two guys.)
  3. One time I was laid out beneath Hannibal, and he was just rocking against me, our cocks swollen and brushing against each other. It was slow and intimate. And Hannibal farted. Very loudly. I couldn’t stop myself from laughing until I had tears running down my face. It didn’t help that Hannibal was affronted either, mumbling things about “normal function of the bowels”. It just made me laugh harder. He sniffed and said since I was so juvenile, he would go find relief elsewhere.



 

tags: #don't worry #i caught hannibal in the bathroom after he walked off #his cock in his hand #my name on his lips #at first i thought i would get on my knees and take him in my mouth #but then i enjoyed so much #just watching hannibal work himself with his hand #the way his lips curled as he said my name #how black his eyes were when he looked at me


	49. Foot Fetish (Brownham)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How do you feel about feet? anything from foot-massage and toe-sucking to full on foot-fetish and foot play... or is it a big turn-off for you?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Originally posted here.](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/96623538428/how-do-you-feel-about-feet-anything-from-foot-massage)

> **How do you feel about feet? anything from foot-massage and toe-sucking to full on foot-fetish and foot play... or is it a big turn-off for you?**

 

Hello again. Those are some good questions. In answer, imagine this:

A tall, muscular man, with abs which are no less than pure poetry, and, when unclothed, is alluring in a sleek, predatory way. This man could easily overpower and you’d be squirming, aching under him as he fucked you open.

Instead every time he is around you he goes completely goggly eyed with adoration, and any sharp edges he might have completely melt away. Imagine him, naked again, and making the sweetest, needy noises as he bends down and takes your big toe in his mouth. He’s hard and his face is flushed, and he smiles around your toe as he sucks it like he sucks your cock. 

Feet are not my first choice, and I don’t personally have a foot fetish. I enjoy foot massages (giving and receiving) as much as the next person but that’s about it. However, it’s hard to say “no” to a guy like Matthew Brown wanting to do things to your feet when your view was the same as mine last Saturday.

I went to visit Matthew for a play date.  I don’t know if he actually has a foot fetish, to be honest, so much as a _Will Graham fetish,_ which doesn’t entirely stoke my ego. I think he could eroticize my nose hairs because he is that enraptured with me. But last Saturday he’d invited me to his apartment for the second time. We had a few drinks and when I felt like it was right, I leaned down and kissed Matthew, gentle and full, and we began exploring each other’s bodies.

We made our way to the bedroom after awhile, where we could undress and I took my socks off. Because Matthew and I had only really had some hurried, half clothed, frantic sex at his workplace, and hurried, half clothed, frantic sex on his couch a few weeks before, we’d never seen each other completely naked, much less, each other’s feet. When I took my socks off Matthew made a noise I don’t want to say was adorable, but it was. It was just this soft sigh of shock.

"Mr. Graham?" he said. He was already wonderfully naked, his body warm and bare against mine.

"Yeah?"

"Is your foot hurt?"

"No? Why? Oh, that’s my toe," I said, wiggling my feet. "It’s a normal birth defect. Curly toe. There’s a fancy name for it I forget. I have one on each foot. See?"

"It  … doesn’t hurt you?" he said. "You never had trouble walking?"

"Nah," I said.

He made another sound and palmed my cock. He began stroking me and I arched back against him, feeling my cock stiffen. His breath fell on my shoulder as he worked. Even though I wasn’t looking (eyes closed, savoring the silky, hot glide of his palm), and even if wasn’t an empath, I could still _feel_ his focus straying to my feet. I could practically pluck his thoughts out of the warm air around us: _Mr. Graham’s feet are so beautiful, and unique, just like Mr. Graham._

I almost laughed out of fondness. _Matthew, dear Matthew_ , I thought. Instead I put my hand over Matthew’s and stopped him — painful as it was because he has very good hands.

"Do you not like that Mr. Graham?" he asked.

"I liked it, but …" I turned towards him. "Matthew … would you like to wash my feet?"

He actually blushed, ripe, dark red streaks running down his cheeks and into his throat and chest.

"Would you like me to Mr. Graham?"

We’d had the conversation before about calling me “Will”, so I wasn’t going to repeat it.

"Yes. I want you to wash my feet, Matthew," I said, kissing the corner of his mouth.

His green eyes widened with excitement. He went to the bathroom and returned with a damp, soapy washcloth and a hand towel.

I don’t know why foot washing, because I don’t have a Jesus complex (that would be Hannibal). My feet were not exactly squeaky clean, and I didn’t like the idea of Matthew playing with them like that, so might as well feed two birds with one seed, as the saying goes.

"I’m sorry I don’t have any essential oils to rub into your feet," he said after he’d been working on my right arch for a few minutes, scrubbing first and then drying with the hand towel. His hands were firm and deft and I stroked myself, slowly, as he worked.

"It’s fine," I said as he ran his fingers over my toes. His touch wasn’t arousing so much as the expression his face, the look of quiet rapture.

"Mr. Graham?" he whispered. 

"Hm?"

"Can I … do you want me to … kiss your feet?"

His unexpressed needs and unanswered questions hummed between us: _Mr. Graham, please let me kiss your feet. I want to kiss your feet so badly. I wish you would let me lick and suck your feet. I want to rub my cock between your feet and come that way._

"Yes," I said, squeezing my own cock, turned on that he was turned on. "Oh god Matthew, I want you to suck and kiss my feet. I want you to fuck my feet, if that’s what you would like to do."

His blush, incredibly, darkened.

"Mr. Graham," he gasped.

I wiggled my toes. “Fuck my feet Matthew,” I grinned.

First he just started by pressing his face to my right arch, and exploring with his mouth and tongue. Then, gripping my foot in his hand, he pumped it, like a cock, mirroring my strokes. And finally, he leaned down, licking the tip of my big toe. He held my gaze as he did so, and as he took my toe into my mouth as if it were the leaking, hard cock in my hand.

I moaned at the sight, and the sounds Matthew made as sucked. He spent time with each toe, sucking it like it was a little cock, until my feet were warm and wet from his mouth.

"Mr. Graham, can I … I want to fuck you," he said, shaking.

I spread my thighs out, butterfly style, and pressed my feet together, creating a gap between the arches for him.

"Please do," I purred, drawing him close. I took his cock — a delicious, hot, heavy weight, throbbing and hard — and slid it between my feet. Matthew was still trembling, and I held him and kissed him as he thrust into me like this.

I groaned, hearing the damp friction of flesh and the frantic, happy sounds Matthew was making. He was _so hard_ I wondered how he could stand it.

"Mr. Graham," he gasped, clutching me. His face was so close, open and tender. And there was a dizzy moment, as I stroked myself in time with his thrusts, where I thought about how much I liked this. More than the building orgasm in my body, and the pleasure Matthew gave me, I liked seeing his face, trembling and vulnerable like this. His mouth slack with pleasure. The tremors ricocheting through his body as his cock thickened. I enjoyed giving and making him feel good like this.

"Mr. Graham," he whimpered.

"Matthew, come for me," I said.

His body tensed and then he sighed, loud and long, as his cum fell against the inside of my thighs, on my hand, on my cock. Which made me come as well. Matthew made a delighted noise as I did, and, in a few minutes when we had re-gathered ourselves a little, he bent down to lick the cum from my thighs and cock. It took some coaxing but he finally let me lick the cum off his stomach. I enjoyed every bitter drop that I lapped off his abs.

"Mr. Graham," he said, voice tinged with what could only be described as awe.

"Hm?"

"Thank you," he said.

"It was my pleasure, Matthew."


	50. Full (Erotic Enemas)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Have you ever done anything or thought about doing anything involving an enema?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Originally posted here.](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/96901765758/have-you-ever-done-anything-or-thought-about-doing)

> **Have you ever done anything or thought about doing anything involving an enema?**

Imagine: the world's most elegant and pristine man imaginable. He's tall, well built, handsome in a curious fashion. The planes of his face are almost too harsh, but then offset by the sensuousness of his lips, and his small, dark eyes. Those eyes are beautiful and lively in the way they always hold light, but it's ever shifting, mercurial. You can't tell what he's thinking unless he wants you to know, which is of course, alluring. He wears outrageously lavish bespoke suits, tailored within an inch of their lives, wears them like a tiger wears his stripes. When he walks into a room the light seems to gravitate towards him, and he exudes masculine grace and power. Oh, and he is _neat_. Hospitals are less tidy and sterile than his kitchen. He can tie a perfect full Windsor with his eyes shut. Not a single hair on his head seems to move out of place, ever.

Now picture him naked, crouched at your feet, his eyes half lidded in a kind of agony and bliss, hair a disheveled mess, his body shaking with anything but perfect control and power. He's whimpering, begging you to  _please, please, please_  let him relieve himself,  _please_.

Yeah.

Hannibal  _loves_ his enemas.

And because he loves them so much, I love giving them to him.

The first time we tried it, Hannibal gave me an erotic enema just to show me what he enjoyed. I endured it. The enema was only mildly uncomfortable but not really erotic for me. But the first time I gave  _him_ an enema, he spend an entire week "blissed out" and humming Vivaldi under his breath. He even bought me a new fly fishing rod as a "thank you" gift. (A  _ridiculously expensive_  fly fishing rod, which I wouldn't even feel worthy of using. But Hannibal would be hurt if I didn't.)

I think Hannibal loves his enemas so much because, first, it requires perfect control on his part. And second, it requires for him to completely let that control go. Hannibal being . . . Hannibal --"perfectionistic" is a watery, toothless word to describe what he's like -- well, I think he finds release and satisfaction in finally being allowed to  _let go_  in the most primal way possible.

The last time it happened it was at the end of the spring, and we were sitting out on my porch. A beautiful day, the sky wide and blue, the sun just warm enough. I was content to sit and scratch my dog's ears in silence, but Hannibal got up and practically dumped himself in my lap.

"Will," he said, voice taut. He pressed his face into my neck and kissed me, rubbing against me like, well, a dog in heat.

"Will, I  _want_  . . ." he said, taking my lobe gently between his teeth.

"I can tell," I said wryly, cupping him in my arms. "What do you want?" I said between kisses.

"I want . . . to feel full," he said into my lips, and punctuated the sentence by sucking on my tongue.

"Fuck," I said once my tongue was freed.

We sat on the porch for awhile longer, messily kissing and groping, before I shoved him off me.

"Go get yourself ready," I growled and Hannibal did his equivalent of "skipping" to the bathroom. (His equivalent of skipping is a rather graceful walk, a little more rapid than his usual pace, with a slight sashay that he doesn't entirely acknowledge.)

While he moved through the bedroom and the bathroom, I went to the kitchen for the enema kit and to prepare the solution. It's really nothing more than a bag with a tube and a small nozzle. The solution is filtered water with some sea salt. I made sure things are clean and working, and the solution was the right temperature before shedding my clothes and taking everything into the bathroom.

Hannibal was naked, squatting in the bathtub, rubbing his hard cock with utter abandon. He blushed pink with arousal. I stood in the door just watching for a moment.

"You are such a horny mess," I teased.  

We took our time, as we do with these things. It would be easier in Hannibal's bathtub, because it's enormous and would more easily fit the both of us, but he only ever asks for enemas when he's staying at my house. He only feels truly safe enough to do it at my house, with me.

In my bathtub, he crouched, legs folded under him, back half bowed. It's very similar to "child's pose" in yoga, though Hannibal remains half sitting rather than bent over. I find it curiously ironic, however, whenever Hannibal crouches like this for me. How vulnerable he is, with his muscular back to me, the cheeks of his ass just slightly parted as I get in behind him.

I opened my legs around him and drew him close to me, stroking and kissing down his back and side. I took the bag and tube and slowly uncoiled the hose, letting out any air. Hannibal trembled with anticipation as I had him shift onto his hands and knees so I could lap at his hole -- enjoying the warm, musky taste of him, the way he moaned as my tongue twisted inside him, and then sliding a lubed finger into him, rimming his hole just enough to ease the way. I guided him back down into his crouch. I put a daub of lube on the nozzle, and he arched his lower back as I pressed it gently inside him. 

"Yeah," I whispered, cradling him against my chest while holding the bag up, letting the water trickle down the tube.

Hannibal moaned as the water began to fill him, a sound which was obscene for him, really, and I felt my own cock begin to harden.

"Do you like that?" I asked him after awhile, rubbing his nipple. I could tell by the tension in his body he was already trying to hold it in.

"Yes," he gasped.

Once the bag was slack, I put it aside and worked the nozzle out, gently, carefully, so as not to let anything spill yet, telling Hannibal to keep it all inside him.

"How do you feel?" I asked.

"Full," he murmured.

"Do you like it when I fill you?" I wrapped my legs around him, rubbing my cock against him. First between his ass cheeks, until he made a noise of protest, then more into his lower back.

He groaned.

"Mmm," I said, reaching between his legs and stroking his cock while I continued to rub against him, to feel the tension building in his body.

"I love filling you up," I said, sucking a mark into his shoulder. He hates marks, usually. I did it because in that moment he was completely  _mine_  and there was nothing he could do about it.

I put my fingers to his lips -- those full, soft lips of his -- and he opened his mouth obediently to me.

"I love filling your throat and your ass," I whispered, thrusting harder against him. He sucked my fingers like he was  _desperate._ Soft noises came out of the back of his throat. He was messy too, grunting and slurping and rocking gently back against me like he'd never in his life been bothered with neatness or elegance. He just  _wanted._  He sucked with enough vigor that, for a moment, I felt like my blood would abandon my cock altogether and go straight to my fingers.

"Hannibal," I groaned, cock leaking against him.

Because I am ornery and a tease, I did two things: first, I took my fingers from him and slid them down, down his back, over his ass, between his thighs, to press lightly against his tight hole. And then I let the pendulum drop.

It's my empathy trick, when I want to be in someone else's perspective. I let my control go and it swings away, like a pendulum, like a door opening, granting me entry to what another person feels, or wants.

I let the pendulum drop because I wanted to know what Hannibal was feeling exactly.

He was  _so full._ His body ached with it, but he wanted to keep holding it in, keep feeling it even though it felt like it would rip him open.  _Let it,_ he felt.

When I whispered again how I loved fill him, the words reverberated through him, pulsing at the end of his leaking dick, and in my fingers burning against his entrance.

"Please Will," he said, because he wouldn't let go unless I told him to, even though the need to release himself was nearly unbearable by then. 

I was still his perspective when I stood and stroked his sweaty face and said: "Just another minute for me, okay?"

My words echoed, strange and almost distant, as if they were not from my mouth, while I pulled the shower curtain and turned on the shower. I made sure the water was a good temperature for Hannibal before stood in front of him, cupping his face in one hand. His eyes were shut and he leaned into my touch -- scathing against him now, his cock livid, his body quivering uncontrollably -- and finally, finally he heard me say: "You can relieve yourself now."

The noise he made when he did made it sound like he was dying. His eyes rolled back and his face contorted, and his whole body let go. He came at almost the same time too, his cum scalding as his cock jerked. He felt pulled apart, shattered, then completely unmoored. He sobbed with relief before folding down into himself. Down into a sweet darkness, a nothingness that wasn't bleak so much and promisingly empty. A strange, comforting place without borders or boundaries to worry about. A freeing place, where he could take deep, deep breaths and simply be inside himself.

It made me wonder what it feels like, for Hannibal, when he is inside himself the rest of the time.

When I left his perspective, my own cock throbbing and sticky from my orgasm -- which had blended with his own -- I drifted for a moment. I watched him for a minute, then began feeling rooted enough to reach for the soap, to start cleaning him. I praised him for how good he'd been, holding it all in for so long. I cleaned us both off and helped him to my bed, where he lay spread out and thrumming like a great purring cat, his whole body lax, careless.

I spread out next to him, enjoying the afterglow of our fullness together, of being naked and open with him. Our kisses and touches were deep and unguarded, and the sounds he made were all soft as bird feathers, light and warm as the sunlight coming through the windows.   


	51. Lure (Some Voyeurism)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You have that unassuming baby face that people assume as weak and not taking what he wants. They would be wrong.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Originally posted here.](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/97061473618/if-they-didnt-follow-you-here-they-would-never-know)

[OOC: Holy fucking too many metaphors. Oh well. The ask is in response to [this post](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/97006947773/if-i-was-a-fictional-character-how-would-the-fandom): If I was a fictional character, how would the fandom misinterpret me?]

* * *

>   **If they didn't follow you here, they would never know what a dirty, naught boy you were. You have that unassuming baby face that people assume as weak and not taking what he wants. They would be wrong.**

 

Oh, I am so glad that someone did "bite" on that post. 

There are reasons Hannibal calls me his little mongoose, and not because I am  _anything_  approaching sweet and innocent.   
  
One man described me as a Venus Flytrap. I seem sweet and cloying and pliable, until you get in close and then it’s far, far too late. I’d actually met and lured him at a bar. I did it easily enough by playing a little coy, a little hard to get. And once I had him, I rode him hard in the back of my car, asking him of he liked the view, if he liked feeling me tight around his dick, if he wanted to come inside me like this. 

He did.  _Twice._  

Since I am a fisherman, I more often liken myself more to a lure. Sleek curves and soft feathers hiding cruel barbs. But a lure changes to suit the climate and the prey. I essentially do the same — making small adjustments to my body language and my voice, my word choice — depending on what I want to catch at a given time.   
  
Sometimes, Hannibal and I will go to a gay club. We are both too old for it really, but I can pass for younger if I shave close enough, if I don’t comb out my hair with more than my fingers, allowing my curls to stay tight and messy, and if I wear jeans and a t-shirt which are slightly too snug for me.   
  
Hannibal will sit with the older gentlemen, most of whom stare longingly after the younger, lithe bodies twisting and twining together on the dance floor. Hannibal though … watches with fascination and hunger as I move through the crowds, luring.   
  
He says I am beautiful when I am like that. I am like a candleflame in the dark, burning red, drawing the delicate little moths too me. He watches too, from the shadows as I let these moths touch me, their hands light and ethereal compared to Hannibal’s, their mouths insubstantial. Their cocks are good inside me yes, as I part my thighs and let them fuck me against the wall or a couch in a black corner. But when if I look up and see the illuminated sliver of Hannibal’s face, watching me, his lips peeled back in a smirk, the other man’s cock is like ash inside me.   
  
If I were alone in these situations I would come from the pleasure of merely luring without the other man really knowing or understanding what had happened. I would come from milking pleasure out of another man’s body, purely because I could. But when Hannibal is there I come because his eyes pierce through me, just as the barbs of a lure can pierce flesh.

I come because he  _sees_  me.   
  
He knows the boy I am.

 

 **tags:** #when i got this ask and began typing #hannibal looked over my shoulder as i worked #he began stroking me and kissing the side of my neck #whispering how much he loved to watch me get fucked #he wouldn't even let me come until i had finished this entry #without any errors


	52. Daddy's Favorite Boy (Little Hannibal)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Does hannibal ever call you daddy?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Originally posted here.](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/97062529493/does-hannibal-ever-call-you-daddy)

[OOC: Bottom and little Hannibal ahoy, just so you know.  **Warnings**  for some homophobic language, threats of violence.]

 

* * *

 

>   **Does hannibal ever call you daddy?**

 

[OOC: Bottom and little Hannibal ahoy, just so you know. Warnings for some homophobic language, threats of violence.]

Do I love riding Hannibal, nice and slow, until we’re both aching and moaning and so, so close?

Though I usually am the one to call Hannibal “Daddy”, there are a few times when our roles are reversed and I am Daddy and Hannibal is the little.

There are two versions of little Hannibal: a child and then a teen. Much like [one of Hannibal’s other favorite activities](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/96901765758/have-you-ever-done-anything-or-thought-about-doing), he only seems to feel comfortable being my little in any form when we are at my house on weekends.  

Teen Hannibal makes me understand why people find teenagers insufferable. He’s not outright rude, though he is a smug, arrogant know-it-all the way many teens are. I could tolerate that, if he wasn’t a manipulative shit who would try to get away with murder. He tends to pick fights with bullies. He’s basically my Hannibal, the adult, with far less impulse control.

With teen Hannibal I have to be cruel at times, and I tell him it’s out of kindness. He needs discipline and since I am Daddy with him, it’s my job to know what he needs, and see to those needs.

But for instance, teen Hannibal dropped by one weekend we were at my house. He was behaving well enough I could take him grocery shopping with me.

I’m not ashamed to say that I’m affectionate with Hannibal just about anywhere, much less when we go grocery shopping. I like to show him off, really. I love it when people actually shoot me jealous looks because  _yes this beautiful man is mine._ I like to wrap my arms around him and kiss him, closed mouthed, when I can. Sometimes I nuzzle him. He likes it too, that I show him off. Child Hannibal simply radiates contentment, whereas teen Hannibal openly, brazenly smirks and preens at people who look at us.

We happened to pass some men by the meat counter who started snickering at us, calling us “faggots”. I ignored them and kept my arm around Hannibal’s waist. Hannibal though, being teen Hannibal at the time, growled at them and threatened to pulverize them into bloody pools with a meat tenderizer.

I hauled him home rather quickly, where I slapped him and told him to go to the bed wait for me, or else it would be more than just my hands on him.

Because this wasn’t the first time he’d been insolent in a way that wasn’t appropriate, I knew what the punishment would be.

He complained that he was only joking, it wasn’t a  _real_ threat, but I slapped him again so he couldn’t continue rationalizing and told him it wasn’t a very funny joke.

“Threatening people is not funny, especially when they were only being petty, and you are  _better_ than that, Hannibal,” I told him.

Then, stripped him and made him suck my fingers, before spreading him open and wetting his entrance just enough to take the edge off before I fucked him hard, rough. He’d barely caught his breath before I finished and pulled out, and then bound him, legs spread, on the bed.

“Mr. Graham?” he whimpered as I pulled out the anal stretching ring I’d bought just in case I needed it for teen Hannibal.

“If you’re going to misbehave you know there will be consequences,” I said. “The more you relax now and obey, the easier this will be.”

He was quiet and still as I pushed the ring into him. A clear ring, so I could have a nice view of his gaping hole stretched wide and pink around it.

I left him like that, tied, ass up and open, with the instructions that if he made a sound, his punishment would worsen.

I heard him whimper, about forty-five minutes in, which is good for teen Hannibal. I only spanked him with the anal stretcher still in, so I could hear the little sounds he made in the back of his throat and watch him clench around the stretcher. I took the stretcher out so I could fuck him again, then slid it back into his messy, abused hole and left him on the bed.

This went on a few more times. I used him like a fucktoy, getting my fill of his sloppy, stretched ass, and then, his mouth, forcing my cock deep into his throat, until he was gagging. Finally, about the second time I fucked his mouth, he became completely quiet and complacent. (Mind you, I did not fuck him in the ass and then in the mouth. I washed between.)

“Can you be a good boy now?” I asked him, wiping cum and spit from his reddened lips.

“Yes,” he managed.

“Yes  _what_?” I grabbed his chin.

"Yes, Daddy,” he whispered. I had been going for “sir”, but “Daddy” was just as well.

I carefully pulled out the anal stretcher then and spent some time washing him, massaging him, and holding him close, telling him how proud I was of him for taking his punishment like a good boy.

By contrast, child Hannibal is perhaps the best little boy a Daddy could ask for. He is clean and tidy, and picks up after himself. He is kind and respectful. He always asks for things politely and he has never disobeyed. He is almost  _too_ good. He mostly likes to sit under my kitchen table and draw. Sometimes he huddles in a pile with my dogs and snuggles with them.

He seems almost afraid to do anything “bad” or “wrong”, so it’s my job to show him he can get messy, and dirty, and it will be okay. It’s also my job to give him whatever he wants. I spoil him rotten, I’ll admit it, but it’s hard not to spoil him because he is such a good boy, always.

Sometimes I wonder at the difference between the two little Hannibals, and what happened between the good, kind little boy and the obnoxious, barely controlled teen. I don’t think it’s just puberty, in this case. Hannibal has not told me yet, but I am sure he will in time.

When I spoil child Hannibal I will often buy him pencils and drawing supplies — whatever he likes, it doesn’t matter how expensive, though he is painfully, sweetly aware of the expense and always shows his appreciation. He usually does so by hugging me tight, sometimes by kissing me. Slow, sweet little kisses, sometimes open mouthed.

Because child Hannibal is so obedient, he is very pliable. I take advantage of this, and make him come fishing with me. It’s really one of the only times I get to take Hannibal – any form of him – fishing. My excuse to him is that he needs a comforting male influence, and fishing is a good way for us to bond.   
  
At first he was reluctant. He didn’t like the waterproof boots and pants, he didn’t like the hat, or putting on sunscreen. He said it felt “messy”. But after awhile he’s gotten used to things and now seems to enjoy it in his own way. Child Hannibal is not so keen on the different lures, but he does like the fish. He delights in their bright eyes and scales, and how quickly they can escape. He actually cried, bitterly, over the first fish he caught, insisting we let it go. The fish had swallowed the lure though, and it had sliced the creature’s throat up enough to kill it. We did have for dinner, after I had assured Hannibal that accidents happen, he didn’t mean to kill the fish.

Another time we went fishing and he was knocked over in the stream. Even a good fisherman will be knocked over by a sudden undertow or current, so I laughed when he went under and came up sputtering, drenched.

“It’s okay, Hannibal,” I assured him, helping him up. “Are you all right?”

“Yes,” he said, but then later, after we’d fished for a bit, he said: “Daddy, I’m cold.”

I took him back home. He shivered most of the way. It was still spring, and there was still ice in the evenings sometimes, so it was rather brisk. When I got him home I took him to the bedroom and peeled off all his wet clothes, and dried him with thick, soft towels, before wrapping him in a warm blanket and holding him close.

This is, incidentally, the same little Hannibal [whose “virginity” I have “taken”, and will again](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/94173946258/what-is-you-favorite-dirty-fantasy-hannibal-had-you-act). Hannibal seems to like that especially. If this little Hannibal comes to visit and we have sex, it’s slow, and gentle, and Hannibal makes soft, completely unburdened noises of surprise. As if he has never been touched  _like this_ before, or never touched another man  _down there_ before. As if he has never felt this kind of pleasure at all.

I do not have a virginity kink, and neither do children under the legal age appeal to me in the slightest. But when Hannibal plays a boy — an untouched, innocent boy, who comes so readily in my hands, who gives his body up to me, trustingly, and pretends that no one has ever made him feel so good — well. That  _does_  go straight to my head, and my dick.

So on that day, as I held him close, wrapped in a blanket, I asked him:  ”Do you feel warmer now?” I asked him.

He wriggled, just a little.

“Yes Daddy, but …”

He turned and I could feel his erection press against me through the blanket.

“Hannibal,” I chuckled and he blushed.

“What is it, Daddy?” he asked.

“It’s normal sweetheart,” I said stroking him gently through the blanket so he shivered, and not from cold.

“I like it when you touch me like that,” he said.

“Do you?” I said.

“Yes,” he said.

I laid him down on his back, spreading the blankets so I could see him.

There was a man there, of course, in this late forties, faint lines of silver in his hair, and lines on his beautiful, otherworldly face. But he curled up like a boy, cupping his hands over his cock. I am not sure how Hannibal manages these transformations. They are so small that someone who didn’t know him would never notice the difference between the boy, the teen, and the adult versions of himself which he plays with me, but, that is something which I find deeply enthralling about him.

“Do you not want me to touch you?" 

"Yes, but …”

“Move your hands then so Daddy can touch you,” I said.

And he did. I took his warm cock in my hand and stroked him, drawing small gasps from him.

“Does that feel good?” I asked.

“Yes,” he nodded.

I smiled and took his cock in my mouth, and his groan was one of shock and pleasure. As if my mouth had not been on him hundreds of times before.

“Oh, Daddy,” he moaned, coming in my mouth.

“That must have felt  _very_ good,” I said, crawling up his body and nuzzling him. “You are such a good boy. You are Daddy’s favorite boy, Hannibal.”

He hummed in pleasure then, uncurling against me.  


	53. 200 + (Former Student)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will commemorates 200 + followers by discussing sucking cock. Of course.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Originally posted here.](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/97272351108/200-followers)

Oh followers and readers. 

I have been a  _naughty_ boy. And not just because I sucked off a former student, who came to my office for a visit. 

It’s been a week since this blog reached a little over 200 followers, and I forgot to post a thank you note for continuing to follow, read, and apparently enjoy my exploits. Maybe it was this former student’s cock, hard, in my mouth, sliding against the warm ring of my lips. Maybe it was the sound of his breath hitching as I swirled my tongue over his head and hummed softly around his quivering shaft. Maybe it was his fingers curling in my hair, and the quietly stammered: “P-professor, I’m gonna —” Maybe it was the acrid, thick taste of his cum. 

Whatever it was that day, I  _completely_  forgot to post. 

You have my sincerest apologies for the lapse. 

 

 **Tags:** #later i bent him over the desk and fulfilled a few fantasies he'd had when he was still my student #the way he curled his back #and the sweet #unintelligble noises he made in the back of his throat #glorious

 


	54. Counting Bodies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so a bit time ago the "Body Count" was twenty-something. Now it suddenly got up to 33? Please do elaborate, what happened in the meantime ;)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Originally posted here.](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/97308717103/okay-so-a-bit-time-ago-the-body-count-was)

 

> **Okay, so a bit time ago the "Body Count" was twenty-something. Now it suddenly got up to 33? Please do elaborate, what happened in the meantime ;)**

 

I’m a little slapdash about it anon. I  _count as I go_  for this blog. So when I recount a sexual exploit and I mention someone I have had sex with, who has not been mentioned previously, I add them to the count. 

It went from 27 to 33 because I mentioned the fact Hannibal and I sometimes go to clubs. We went four times in the last year, and three of those times I fucked one person, one of those times I fucked two. And then I had my former student last week, which brought the total up to 33. So far. There are more, of course, they just haven’t been added yet.   
  
Counting all my sexual encounters at once … well, where’s the sense of lurid anticipation, of wondering just how many people I have fucked, and just how high that number will go?

"Are you saying you don’t know?" I hear the collective gasps and queries.   
  
I  _know_ , of course. I just don’t always “kiss and tell”. I have had partners leave me when I’d been foolish enough to tell them, in point of fact.   
  
Once, early in our relationship, I was telling Hannibal about some “conquests” and “conquerors” from my bygone days, and Hannibal had one of his jealous moments.  His eyes narrowed and his lips pursed, and his whole body vibrated a kind of malevolence which usually means I am going to be tied down and beaten in some fashion, until I am  _begging_ him to  _please let me come_ or  _please touch my cock_ or  _please fuck me please._

We were in bed at the time this happened, both naked, perhaps conveniently. I was astride Hannibal’s lap, and he grabbed my hair and bent me nearly in half, back arched and chest out and exposed. For some reason, I remembered he’d been a surgeon then, and I had this vision of him tracing a scalpel over my flesh — not cutting, just grazing — along my sternum. It made me moan as much as the force of the bend, his hands keeping me in place like that. 

"Whore boy," he hissed. He released my hair and rolled on top of me, his thighs pinning my shoulders so I couldn’t move.

"How many have you had?" he leaned down and grabbed my hair, rubbing his hard cock against my lips.

"I … I’d have to think …" I said. I was partially teasing, just to see what he would do to me. I was also afraid what he would do if he knew the real number up front. I wasn't afraid he'd hurt me. I was afraid he'd leave me.

"I’d have to go back and … count," I said after a moment, thinking I'd been clever. Thinking that he would give up before I reached the final number, or believe the whole thing was a joke on my part, that I couldn't possibly have been with that many people. Thinking I had evaded his question. I didn't know Hannibal as well then, but I still knew him well enough to know better. 

"Then count," he snarled, shoving his cock in my mouth until I gagged. Each time he pulled back I gasped another number before he drove his cock back into me.   
  
He finished well before I did. So he tied my hands behind my back and made me crouch on the floor, my legs tied too so they’d be spread just enough. He slicked my asshole with lube, and the dildo, of course, and commanded me to ride the dildo like the wanton little slut I am. I wasn’t allowed to stop until I finished counting. 

I finished, but it hurt by then. My abdominal muscles were aching, my hips and pelvis muscles were stiff and cramping, and my groin and inner thighs burned. I whimpered when I finally reached the end. Hannibal sighed — a sigh that sounded both long suffering and a little surprised — and praised me for being so good, so obedient. He laid me on my side and slowly untied me, massaging my hurting limbs and body. The dildo fell out on it’s own really, it was so slick and my hole was so stretched. 

Hannibal carried me to the bathroom and he gave me my customary aftercare bath. 

I finally asked him if it mattered how many people I’d fucked. 

He paused just long enough to terrify me. 

"No," he said, smiling, cupping my face. 

"Really?"

"I don’t like imagining others hands on you," he admitted. "But it brings you so much joy … I can’t ask you to deny your nature, either," he said, shampooing my hair. "You are a wild creature and I find that quiet appealing."

I sighed then too, deep and contented. 


	55. Sea of Stars (Panic Attack)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Have you ever gotten lost in your head or sensations and had a panic attack during sex? If so, what caused it and how did Hannibal react?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Originally posted here.](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/97385538628/have-you-ever-gotten-lost-in-your-head-or-sensations)

[OOC: Some Hannibrownham and double anal penetration in this. Oh, and descriptions of panic attacks, mentions of clinical depression.]

* * *

>   **Have you ever gotten lost in your head or sensations and had a panic attack during sex? If so, what caused it and how did Hannibal react?**

 

I hope, anon and readers, that you didn’t come away from [my post about going too far with Hannibal](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/96368356308/youre-pretty-heavy-into-kink-stuff-have-you-or-a) thinking that my empathy disorder led to panic attacks or sensation overloads  _during_ sex. Looking at the post though, it seems it might be unclear.

It’s true that when I was younger and sexually experimenting, the empathy disorder would sometimes kick in without me paying attention. I’d find myself profoundly confused and then delighted by the fact I assumed my lover’s perspective. It wasn’t necessarily panic-inducing so much as bewildering and disconcerting, and then, very enjoyable. Once I began to understand I had an empathy disorder of some kind, I began to find ways to … control and curb it, more or less. “Contain it” is probably the right way to phrase that, so there was less overspill into other areas of my life.

Hannibal keeps saying I should stop calling it a “disorder”, because it doesn’t impair or limit my “functionality”, but I beg to differ.

The problem of losing a sense of myself comes from the fact that I empathize with the worst and most destructive human impulses. When I first worked homicide in New Orleans I began to have … problems with insomnia. I began to have nightmares, and attacks, and even became — well, Hannibal thinks it was clinical depression — I just felt really awful most of the time. I felt like I was buried under black tar and couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t even think. It got to the point where I didn’t even want to get out of bed in the mornings. It felt like too much work to even kick the covers off.

Most of it was caused because I was solving cases, some of them very grisly, and I was empathizing with the perps. I would come home bloated with murder, mentally and emotionally speaking, and just feel weighted down by that. I tried exercising, I tried squeezing off a few rounds at the firing range. Usually the only thing that helped and motivated me at the time was … sex. The promise of a fresh, hot body beneath or over me. His fingers tugging my hair as he spread me open and fucked me until I was sobbing and sore and I could somewhat forget all the grim things I was hauling around.

Sex really helps to ground me back in myself. Most of the time when I’ve had a rough day and show up at Hannibal’s door, it’s enough to feel his arms around me, his warm, solid body against mine, his gentle kisses he unzips my pants and strokes me off in his entryway.

But sometimes it is not. Sometimes there is just too much going on in this crazy, mis-wired brain of mine, and I am overwhelmed. Usually it happens after I’ve been to a crime scene and I am drowning in the intensity of the empathy. That’s when the panic attacks happen.

It’s hard to separate the panic attacks from the insomnia which will strike around the same time, and then the nightmares. It turns into a viscous “suck cycle” as my friend Beverly calls it. If I am working on a case, I need sleep, but the nightmares and insomnia will upset that, inevitably. Which means I will be irritable, easily stressed, and have migraines. Which means that when something overwhelms me, I have less energy to calm myself down and the panic attacks start. And then it just goes in a vicious spiral for a week, or two, until my life reorients itself enough that I can get out of the suck cycle. 

These suck cycles are not as bad as they used to be. I nearly dropped out of the police force when I was younger because of the suck cycles and resulting “depression”. I’ve basically learned how to deal with the suck cycles now. For years therapists tried to feed me medications, but the medications usually made things worse or made me feel dulled and strange — like I was not myself. Usually I just swallow a couple aspirins to take the edge off. But aspirin doesn’t do shit when you start feeling like there is no air left, that you’re choking, the world is turning white, the colors are all leeched out and shrunk to one tiny pinprick, and your heart is pounding so hard you’re convinced it’s going to explode right through your ribcage.

When I feel like that — and it’s only happened maybe two or three times since I’ve been with Hannibal — he will lead me to the bedroom (mine or his), help me onto the bed, and simply tell me to breathe. Even breaths, through my nose. If I am stable enough he will hold my hand and stroke my wrist until I start to feel a little better. If I am well enough after that, he will lean in and start to kiss me, slowly, carefully. Then undress me, bit by bit, until I’m naked. And then he will touch me and suck me and fuck me and flog me and spank me and pinch me and pleasure me until the sensation in my brain finally just …dissipates. The whiteness recedes and the color comes back into the world and I can breathe. I am nothing but exhausted, sweating, sticky flesh.

I am myself.

The first time I had a panic attack with Hannibal we discovered this by chance. Hannibal basically thought if I was already over-stimulated in my head, maybe overstimulation of the body and the senses would bring me out of my head. His guess was right, of course.

The last time … well, it happened recently, actually.  I’m leaving the cusp of a current suck cycle, which wasn’t brought on by anything but stress and lack of sleep. Also, writing the post about where I lost it with Hannibal didn’t help. Against my better judgment I didn’t shelve it until later, and remembering what I’d done to Hannibal … I had a panic attack, basically. I called him on the phone. It must have been a really thrilling conversation for him, to try and understand me through anxious gasps and sobs. He told me it would be all right, and to stay where I was, he was coming, and until he came I needed to focus on breathing, evenly and steadily.

I trusted him, so when he arrived, with Matthew Brown in tow … I was confused, and I nearly passed out from hyperventilating because it was just too much for me to deal with. Hannibal caught me in his arms and cradled me, murmuring,  _ssssh, ssssh,_ stroking my hair. Matthew was probably worried about me but he stayed a few steps behind Hannibal. Probably fiddling though, knowing him. I did hear him ask: “Mr. Graham? Is he all right Doctor?”

"He is going to be fine, Mr. Brown," Hannibal said, his hand warm and firm against the back of my neck. "I want you to help me make him feel better."

"Anything for Mr. Graham," Matthew said.

"You are right. He is obedient," Hannibal murmured when Matthew wasn’t in earshot. "I see why you enjoy him."

I grunted and let Hannibal take me to my bed. He undressed me as he usually did, touching me all over. At some point he told Matthew to touch me, and I whimpered as Matthew’s warm mouth closed around me, sucking my cock and then my balls.

"I will prepare him. We won’t hurt him," Hannibal said, fingers sliding inside me, slick and delicious. I shivered as his fingers brushed my prostrate, as I felt a cool anal plug slide in when the fingers receded.

"Would you like Matthew to watch as I flog you?" Hannibal asked, while I was stretched out, belly pressed into the bed.

"Mmm-hmm, if Matthew wants," I managed, my breathing finally beginning to steady and the white to ebb from around my vision. Things felt a little less tight, less constrained.

"I don’t want to watch," Matthew said. "I can’t stand Mr. Graham in pain."

I said I liked being flogged, but Matthew went away. Later, Hannibal told me that Matthew played with my dogs, which really doesn’t endear Matthew to me all the more. He’d never even seen my dogs before.

While Matthew was gone, Hannibal flogged me. He flogged both my ass and my back. He is a beautiful flogger. His form is perfect, the way he lands blows is achingly even, and he has never injured me or left a single mark on my body that I didn’t cherish. I love it when he beats me out of a panic, because the ripples of pain seem to weld my mind back to my body. I can feel my flesh around me again, my cock beginning to throb as the blows land. That day there was the added sweet, hot tightness of my ass clenching around the plug. I moaned and arched back into the last of the blows.

"Very good Will," Hannibal said, massaging my back and ass.

He slid the plug out and fucked me on his fingers for awhile, widening my hole until I was gasping. Then he slid another, larger plug into me, and I felt the strain of it bulging inside me.

Then he dripped candlewax on me, and it landed molten against my already sensitive skin. I heard Matthew ask, from another room, if I was okay — I was probably making a lot of loud noises — and I said I was fine. Hannibal had removed the candle wax by the time Matthew was asked to return, but I knew Matthew would not like all the red marks on my body.

"It feels good," I whispered to Matthew as Hannibal worked four fingers inside me.

"Suck him and pinch his nipples, Mr. Brown," Hannibal said, stroking down my spine. "You would like that wouldn’t you, Will?"

I moaned in answer, so Matthew sucked me and pinched my nipples while Hannibal’s fingers kept opening me wider, wider.

"Harder," I told Matthew and he frowned, but dug his fingers into my nipples until I felt pain, like red sparks. "Oh god," I sobbed.

Hannibal’s fingers were replaced again by an even larger plug. It felt like he might as well have wedged a soccer ball in my ass — I throbbed and burned with the fullness — and I wondered, briefly, if I would have trouble sitting later.

"Well Mr. Brown," Hannibal said crisply. "Touch him and make sure he comes at least once before …"

Matthew gladly complied with that, and Hannibal watched. His eyes were lazy, reptilian, even, as he sat at the edge of the bed, naked, stroking himself. While he watched Matthew crawl all over me, touch me, fondle and stroke me, kiss me, suck me. Matthrew rubbed his body against mine, clutching my ass in his hands, spreading me open all the more. Between Matthew’s touches and Hannibal’s dark eyes on me, I came.

"Isn’t he beautiful?" Hannibal asked, stroking hair from my face.

"He is," Matthew agreed.

Both men looking at me, Matthew with adoration, and Hannibal with an almost suffocating understanding and affection. I could have come again from their gazes all over me, the pleasure of their naked bodies now pressed against mine.

"If this hurts we will stop," Hannibal whispered, laying himself beneath me, pulling me into his lap.

"Mmm," I mumbled as he reached down and gently pulled the plug out.

First Hannibal guided me onto his cock, and it was easy, my hole slick and stretched. He rocked carefully up into me, kissing my throat, then holding my face in his hands.

"Breathe, Will," he said, running his thumbs over my cheekbones as I felt Matthew behind me, his cock pressing against my entrance, and against Hannibal’s cock, which was already in me.

I gasped, but I did as Hannibal asked. Matthew pushed into me, his cock pulsing against Hannibal’s, both of them swollen, tight inside me.

I was suspended for a moment, held between them. So incredibly full. Hannibal tells me that the way I moaned as Matthew entered me — a sound shocked and desperate and wanting — was one of the most arousing noises of his life.

"It was more beautiful than some few operas I’ve heard," he said.

All I really remember was feeling, more than seeing, an infinite number of stars. As if my body were a universe and each star was a nursery of warmth and pleasure being born in my flesh. Matthew’s warm, slick cock thrusting slowly alongside Hannibal’s — a whole galaxy, full of light and heat. Hannibal’s hands on my face. Matthew’s hands on my hips. My cock hardening again.

"Fuck me," I said at some point, and Hannibal cradled me as Matthew did just that, light exploding in my body with each thrust.

"Oh god," I chanted over and over, until my throat was raw, and I was coming again around the both of them, tight, shaking, a black hole sucking in sensation and tearing it to pieces until I lay between them, dripping, languid. Like the beginning of all creation. Soft noise and sensation, everything condensed into one ultrahot, burning point: my body.

Myself.

I exhaled, loud and long.

"Better?" Hannibal asked quietly, so softly I don’t think Matthew heard.

"Better," I said.

I don’t think this will happen again, unfortunately. At least, not with Matthew. Matthew didn’t like seeing me like that, and he certainly didn’t like seeing how Hannibal “hurt” me. Matthew is very protective and tender-hearted towards me, so I understand that.

But I am sure Hannibal can find something else that will help just as much. 


	56. Dirty Talk (Will Makes a Confession)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hannibal's worst dirty/pillow talk?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Originally posted here.](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/97815550513/hannibals-worst-dirty-pillow-talk)

[OOC: As in the past, the top is the "honest" answer, the bottom, in italics, is a less circumspect answer.

The post starts with Will's point of view, goes to Hannibal, and then back to Will at the end.

 **Warnings** for mentions of necrophilia, disembowelment, garroting, Will and his inappropriate boners. Also some breathplay.]

* * *

> **Hannibal's worst dirty/pillow talk?**

 

Oh  _anon._

Hannibal was passing by when I first opened this ask and I happened to snort. He asked me what I was laughing about and so I read your ask out loud.

His eyes narrowed and his lips pursed in that way of his. It makes him look like a cat whose tail has been stepped on. He huffed unhappily and then went back to preparing dinner. But Hannibal, being Hannibal, he wouldn't let it drop and found . . . well, not entirely unpleasant ways to bring it up over the next few days. But there came a point when I was a little fed up with him ardently trying to prove this ask wrong. Finally I just said to him if this ask bothered him that much he could answer it himself. He said he would "oblige" for the sake of "clarity".

* * *

Dear Anonymous:

I find your query very curious indeed. If Will had reason to be displeased with my "dirty talk" as you call it, I am certain I would have heard about it by now, given Will's proclivities for making noise.  

On the evening that Will read your ask to me, I will admit that I felt some natural anxiety, and therefore, decided to prove my abilities. We were lying in Will's bed together, and he was dressed in a white t-shirt and his boxer-briefs, reading his very dog eared copy of  _Tropic of Cancer._ He looked most becoming in the golden light of his bedside lamp, his cheeks still a little rosy from earlier, when I had asked him to masturbate while I watched. Presently, I wrapped my arms around him and kissed his throat, listening to the quick, sharp, intake of breath he makes every time, without fail, when he thinks we're going to have sex. Book discarded now, I rolled him on to his stomach and pinned him to the bed. From there I began to whisper to him. I would take his clothes off, just grazing his skin but not touching. I would watch him stroke himself again, his face and chest reddening with arousal, his beautiful shaft thickening in his palm, his lips parted in small gasps of pleasure. I informed Will that I'd then have him on his knees, like the little whore boy he is, taking me into his mouth. I whispered how much I wanted to feel my shaft rub against the back of his throat again, to hear him struggle to breathe through each thrust.  

At first Will fought me, but then as I whispered, employing the same tone I adopt for my patients, clinical and detached, Will began to moan and to whimper. He rubbed back against me, pleading me to "spread him wide and fuck him", but I put my hands on his mouth and told him"hush". He stilled, not even moving his hips to rub against the bed, though his body trembled from the effort of reining himself. (He is very obedient when he wants something.) I could smell his precum, sweet and damp, like chanterelle mushrooms on a scalding summer day.

I told him I wanted to come in his mouth, as I have many times now, his greedy, wanton lips wrapped around me as I finish. I would see his lips, luscious as a ripe pomegranate seed, parted for just for me, yielding a white, pearlescent mouthful of my cum. I would make his mouth mine, and then the rest of him as I saw fit.

I am pleased to say when my Will came his cries were muffled in my hand, but no less glorious for it.

If this is not sufficient evidence, know that this is not the first time I have made good Will come just by talking "dirty" to him.

Sincerely,

Hannibal

* * *

**His Firsts (Hannibal)**

_Ravishing creature, splayed under me like an offering. I murmured this into your sweaty curls, moments after your release flooded the air with your hot, salty scent._

_I would have had you then and there, with your legs parted just enough to allow me entry. I imagined having you raw, with only a little spit Your entrance would be satisfyingly snug for me and just the right kind of painful for you. I thought of taking you slowly and spreading you wider with each thrust. I'd relish the way you'd moan and writhe beneath me._

_But it was not to be, clever, clever boy. My mongoose, my serpent hunter. Lethal and quick, your hips rotating, using my moment of smug satisfaction to wrap your thighs around mine and send me sprawling beneath you, your hands on my throat, growling._

_"You wanna fuck?" you snarled. "I'll fucking ride your dick so hard," you ground down against me, your own shaft still half hard. "I'll fucking ride your dick raw," you panted. "Would you like that?"_

_Clever boy, deadly boy, your hands tightening around my throat. The air in the room felt thin and scarce then, and the blood in my groin burned._

_"Would you?" you smirked. When you leaned in to kiss me, tasting the small puffs of air draining from me, I shuddered._

_"Would you me riding your dick, while I squeeze the life out of you?"_

_Your hands tightened again and my vision scattered with black stars as I came, and remained dim until your hands released me._

_I was briefly disappointed. But only briefly._

_We didn't bother cleaning ourselves, instead pulling off what clothes we had to lie together, naked and touching. Cradled against me, your soft curls against my fingers, I marveled at the fact you were anything but the deadly creature you'd just been moments before. Now you simply murmured softly, content as freshly nursed infant._

_"Is that how you would kill me?" I asked. "With your hands?"_

_I felt the stir of those words between us._

_"Yes," you whispered. "How would you kill me?"_

_I pondered this. Not for the first time, and certainly not for the last. There would be such pleasure in managing to kill you. You don't even know -- remarkable boy! -- it pains and excites me to think of killing you. Of seeing the light in your eyes go out and being the last thing you saw, the last thing you touched._

_Sometimes I even dream of having just killed you, and rolling you over to lay claim to your body while you are still warm, and I can still bury myself and my seed deep in you. It would be such a beautiful death. The death of my life. I would never kill again, dear boy, if I had to kill you._

_That night however, I could not manage it. I could only run my fingers across your abdomen, thinking of all the muscle there, all the organs. I thought of how becoming it might be to open you up, to feel you spill between my fingers, and then against me, while I wrapped my arms around you and felt you shake and gasp with agony. So much like ecstasy, your lips quivering as if you had just been on your knees and sucking me._

_I wasn't lying when I told you that night, dear boy, that I couldn't kill you. Not then, at least. Not like this. I would gut you, as you had surely already gutted me in a thousand excruciating and pleasurable ways, but certainly I couldn't end you._

_You stilled at that, and made a noise in the back of your throat. You reached down between your legs -- you were already hard again -- and squeezed yourself._

_"Fuck," you said, quiet and obscene._

_"If you killed me," I said, beginning to stroke you, "I would be your first."_

_You laughed._

_"And Hobbs?" you managed as my thumb swirled your wet head._

_"He's not a proper first," I hummed, wrapping my arm around your lower back to feel the stretch and arch of muscle._

_You came a second time, mouth open and eyes shut, the very picture of rapture, your cum painting my belly and chest._

_"You wouldn't be my first. Neither would Hobbs," you said softly in those moments after, and I thought I had misheard you._

_"Will?"_

_"You wouldn't be my first," you said, no louder, but the words were cruel now. A blunt knife forced between my ribs._

_For a moment I thought I_ would _kill you. I would yank you by your hair and throw your head into the wall. I would snap your neck. I would fuck you raw while you plead for your life and then slit you open from throat to navel._

 _How_ dare _you keep such a secret from me. How dare someone else_ have _you that way._

_But the feeling passed and instead I held you close and stroked your lower back to reassure you. You were, wisely, frightened of my jealousy, and my violence, and had tensed in my arms._

_I waited until you relaxed before saying: "Tell me about it."_

_You made a noise -- bitter and lost and sad -- and then began to tell your story. I took pains to listen closely, to memorize each word, each tremor in your voice, each expression on your face._

_You said she was important. Your partner on the police force when you were promoted to homicide. You spoke of her so fondly, with so much adoration, I wondered that you hadn't been lovers. But she'd been like a big sister to you -- you insisted that much. I was gladdened however, to know she had . . . passed._

_She'd been clever, too, apparently, smart, efficient. You praised her police-work and all her years on the force as if you were still bewildered by her. As if you were still uncertain she was what you found out she what she was, in addition to being an outstanding detective._

_Four years, you repeated over and over, like a mantra. As if by saying it you could make the reality dissipate._

_"She deceived and . . . manipulated me," you said, voice hoarse with anger and disbelief. That you could be so deceived for so long. Four years, and yet in love with your glorious partner, your mentor, that small, sweet-hearted woman who you had seen comfort and assure victims countless times. The same sweet-hearted woman who had put a hand between your shoulder blades and told you had done the right thing to draw your side-arm one day._

_Who decided one night to go out drinking with you, and then follow you and the boy you had picked up home._

_"I was in the habit of collecting strays, even then," you said, wistfully, ironically. Boys in clubs, some just barely legal, who were just as lonely and just as hungry as you. You looked for yourself in them, looked to sate yourself by burying your cock in their bodies. Boys who were gutter trash, really, but you didn't care. They were warm bodies and a place to rest, to make all the noise in your head ebb._

_Even this boy, whose eyes were brown. You knew that much. He had you in the backseat of your car. Parked in some empty, black alley, pants drawn down around your ankles, shirt rucked to your shoulders, moaning as he penetrated you. Such a delicious thing for me to imagine._

_You seemed wrecked by the notion your partner had followed you. Your voice went quiet, but hard, recounting how she got into the car. You believed the other man had kicked the door open somehow, but it was her, and she garroted the boy while he mounted you._

_Also delicious._

_I wonder how it felt to have him still inside you as he died, face bloating and turning red and purple. You only said you didn't even know what was happening until your partner slapped you in the face, told you to get that cock out of you, and how it fortunate it was you'd made him wear a condom._

_"We took the boy apart," you said, voice shaking. "A boy who'd done nothing wrong except fuck me, maybe," you laughed uneasily. "She said . . . she said he was filth. She'd seen him on another street -- up where the boys who are sex workers walk -- and uhm . . ." your lip curled. Disdain? "He was just filth and wouldn't be missed. And it was our job to clean up filth like that, even if it meant going outside the law. I asked her 'what about me then? Am I filth because I let him fuck me?' You know what she said?" Your voice breaking now. "You're a caterpillar in a chrysalis or some shit like that. She said I was the perfect bait. Both for men or women." Though you spat the words, I swear I felt a ripple of pride run through you._

_I do admire the way your partner and you disposed of the boy. It is elegant in its simplicity: taking the boy's body apart -- those limbs, how they are_ not _alive! -- and then throwing his pieces into a bayou. Your car was scrubbed down of course, and so were you. But I marvel at nature's work in this: in taking the pieces of the boy and turning them to jelly in mere weeks. Even the bones could rot in the heat of some marshes._

_You said something about agonizing over this for weeks, even after a second, successful hunt, where you lured another boy. I find it humorous that even as his body spasmed in death, you promised a reckoning for him and for your first "unintended" victim._

_I wonder if you needed the reckoning for them, or to absolve yourself of the erection you certainly had as both boys died? Your voice pinched to such a heady pitch when you recalled that part of the tale._

_It little matters now, though. You seemed very smug, very pleased to say your partner didn't show up to work one day and her body was never found._

_"Officially she went 'missing'," you said, and I don't think you would call your expression "preening" at that point, though it was. Your body half arched and languid, your throat exposed, licking your lips in a rather satisfied manner._

_"I last saw her alive of course. So they questioned me, but I was released. I had no discernible motive. I_ adored  _her. The fact she went missing_ devastated  _me," you said, smiling, rolling your hips against me. "I sobbed so much that chief sent me home on a few day's leave to get my shit together. Unofficially, however," your whispers, between kisses, sweet and noxious, "her remains have rotted to nothing and her bones, if they're left, have been picked clean and lie at the bottom of the same bayou with her victims."_

_Your laugh was so sad, so triumphant. I marveled that you could have such contradictions._

_"Beautiful," I murmured, digging my nails into your skin, kissing you deep._

_"How did killing her make you feel?" I asked._

_"It felt . . . righteous," you said, the words burning like firelight between us. "I felt alive."_

_"I'm so proud of you," I said, kissing you again before I turned you over to fuck you raw, as we so both wanted._

**The Ugliest Thing (Will)**

_I deserved this. Your cock in me with only a little spit to ease the way. Jamming deep inside me, splitting me open again and again. I deserved every tear of pain that went through my body as you pushed me down and fucked me, mercilessly. The way I had fucked that second boy -- metaphorically -- promising myself and the pleasures of my body. That too, had been merciless. Wanton. My body bent in yearning to feel him against me, inside me._

_To see what he would do. Wind him up with promises, with touches and kisses._

_I knew what would happen to the boy of course, but that didn't stop me. I knew what I was doing. I knew, as his breath stuttered and the thin wire slithered around his throat. Clothed as we both were, I moaned loudly, clutching him close as the blood and the air vanished from his face. I came hard enough in my jeans that I bit my lip and my blood got all over the place. My partner scolded me for that, but I didn't care. I burned pleasingly with it, even as the guilt formed in my throat and threatened to choke me._

_If I was capable of being honest with myself then, I would have said I had wanted this for_ years _._

_But I wasn't._

_So I deserved it. I deserved this pain, delivered by your hands and your body. Each thrust of your cock like being stabbed, until I was aching and calling your name as you came inside me._

_Lying in the dark with your weight on me wasn't crushing. I felt like you were pressing all my ripped, fleshy pieces back together again._

_"Remarkable boy," you murmured and I shivered to hear it, to feel you cup my face and kiss my lips. "I am so proud," you said again._

_I didn't cry because I was sad, or even guilty -- though I was. I cried because you of all people didn't think I was filth for what I'd done._

_Can a psychopath love?_

_Maybe._

_Maybe if he has another psychopath who can love him in return._


	57. Live Bait (Nervous in the Bedroom)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Has hannibal ever been nervous about anything in the bedroom?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Originally posted here.](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/98810629383/has-hannibal-ever-been-nervous-about-anything-in-the)

[OOC: as ever, Will’s “official” answer lives on the top, his “honest” answer is below that, in italics.

Just for your information, readers: there will be about three “heavy” posts in a row this week, followed by a spate of just porn.

 **Warnings**  in this one for face-fucking, whipping, and jealous, possessive Will.]

* * *

 

> **has hannibal ever been nervous about anything in the bedroom?**

 

The anon who once asked about how I handle jealousy will get a more complete answer today, if they’ve happened to stick around.

The word “nervous” is not something that is really part of Hannibal’s personal lexicon. For example:

When Hannibal and I first met, he helped me find a serial killer who had been taking young girls. We went to question a potential suspect and well … the killer greeted us cordially by throwing his wife at us. After he’d slashed her throat of course, so she bled out right in front of me. I pursued the man into his house. I cornered him in the kitchen, and he was threatening to slash his own daughter’s throat. The guy was yelling, I told him to put down his weapon, and then I shot him several times. He sailed backwards like a bloodied, meaty kite with holes torn through it.

His daughter was nicked — in the throat no less — and me being me, I was too much of a mess to do much but make panicked noises while she bled out on the floor.

Hannibal stepped into this scene which shivered with violence and fear, and it was like he was fucking going to a  _picnic._

_Tra la la la, oh, unfortunate how this man is riddled with bullet holes. Oh, how unfortunate Mr. Graham seems to be freaking out too much to be useful. Oh, this poor girl seems to be bleeding to death. Let’s fix that shall we?_

He simply knelt beside me, while I was shaking enough to rattle the molars from my jaw, and wrapped his hands — now so strong and familiar and  _home_ to me — around the daughter’s throat, stopping the blood and saving her life.

This is selfish, but, it felt almost as if  _my_ throat had been slashed and he was stopping the blood from leaving my body. I remember just relaxing in that moment because it was okay, Hannibal was there and he knew what to do, I didn’t have to do everything on my own, I didn’t have to fix everything this time.

So sexual things really don’t make Hannibal nervous.

The only thing which makes him nervous, to my knowledge, is  _me,_ actually.

Hannibal is a cunning, frighteningly intelligent man. He is a psychiatrist and he can usually read people quickly. But he’s told me more than once that he can never entirely predict me and what I will do. And I think this makes him nervous at times, because well, I’m not always safe.

The most recent example is when I came to his house recently, to have dinner with him. I slapped him on the ass, playfully, while he fixed dinner, and instead of huffing in indignation (“how dare you disturb the chef while he works!”) or growling at me to “be good” as he usually does, Hannibal stilled. Like I was a fox and he, a rabbit, waiting to see if I had noticed him.

"Hannibal?" I asked, pressing my hand against the spot I had just slapped and feeling his sharp — almost pained — intake of breath.

But he  _said_ nothing. He didn’t have to.

He was still and let me unbuckle his belt and move his pants and boxers just enough out of the way to see the red scratches on his ass.

"When did this happen?" I asked, surprised, blushing because I could guess a million reasons why he had such marks on him that I hadn’t put there.

Hannibal sighed. “Yesterday.”

Apparently he had taken up with a new lover. It had been a little unexpected. He’d been planning to tell me tonight, to beg forgiveness and ask permission, as is our agreement.

At first I was simply shocked that Hannibal would have another lover. I do have lovers on the side, but since Hannibal and I have been together I’ve been his only lover. While our agreement never barred Hannibal from seeing others, it had not occurred to me that he might.

And then I was intensely, insanely, ridiculously  _jealous._

Because Hannibal was  _mine,_ I felt. I wanted nothing more than to split him wide open with my cock, to hear him panting and begging, to take a dragon’s tongue to his ass and pant new marks —  _my_ marks — over the old ones.

"Will?" he asked at one point.

I grabbed him by his hair and hauled him up to his bedroom, heedless of the fact he stumbled as his pants slid down his thighs and calves. I spanked him when he did, slapping the spot with the welts and growing I was going to make him  _mine_ again.

"Yes," he moaned as I tossed him into the bedroom.

I tied him up. Hannibal is exquisite at Kinbaku, but he has acknowledged I am master of it, between the two of us. (It’s hard to beat a fisherman at his own game: the control and concentration required to get the intricate knots  _just so_.) There is a ring which hangs from the ceiling of his bedroom for the purpose, and usually he has a pot or some kind of obscure art hanging there, as subterfuge. When we rope bind the subterfuge simply comes down and one of us goes up.

That night it was Hannibal, in what translates to “the reverse hanging shrimp”, his back bowed downwards, belly exposed beneath the crosshatch of rope, his cock taut and leaking. First I just ran my fingers over his naked, helpless body, just to feel him shiver — with fear or anticipation — I can’t be sure. Hannibal often eludes my empathy tricks, which isn’t partially why I enjoy him so much. Just as he cannot always be sure of what I will do, I can’t always be sure of what he will do, either. Even Steven.

Then I took out the dragon tongue — rather new, barely broken in — and I lashed him over those existing marks. Lashed him all up and down his back, across his belly, until he was littered with scarlet, blade shaped marks.

"You’re  _mine,”_ I growled again, pulling his head up by his hair.

"Yes. Yes Will —"

"Yes  _what_?” I jerked his head back.

"Yes, yes Sir."

I nodded and then unzipped my pants and pulled out my cock — achingly hard just from binding him and rendering him helpless.

"Suck," I said, pushing my cock against his lips.

There is one thing Hannibal hates when we have sex. He can use me until I am sweating, gasping, and panting, whimpering. He can call me his slave, his whore, his cum receptacle and I will  _beg_ for him to fill me.  I will hold my legs open as wide as I can and tell him  _yes I am your whore, please give me your cock, please give me your cum_ and any manner of filthy things. I will let him use me as a fucktoy and then purr contentment about it.

He hates being used as a fucktoy, though. There is something disdainful in it for him, I think. The mess of letting go. Of being so naked, so vulnerable, so openly wanting. He usually hates to beg. He hates to give up that control.

So I took it from him because I knew he hated it, and the punishment would send him a strong enough message:  _oh, yes, go enjoy your others, but remember who you belong to first and last._

At first he resisted, but after I slapped him a few times with my palm, he opened his mouth. I held him there and fucked his face, without any regard for what he wanted. I mostly just plunged my cock into his mouth, enjoying the wet, hot slide, the sound of his gagging, and coughing, when I pulled back enough. His eyes were watering and his face was sticky with snot and precum when I stopped. He seemed to visibly relax for a moment, until I started stroking myself, still holding his head back by his hair.

"Are you mine?" I whispered as my orgasm built.

He licked his reddened, bruised lips, still hesitant.

"Are you?" I gasped.

"Yes. Yes Sir," he replied. And his voice sagged with a kind of defeat I hadn’t heard before.

"Good boy," I said, and then grunted as I came on his face.

Hannibal hates that too.

Don’t worry dear readers. I didn’t leave him tied up there too long, with cum dripping off his forlorn face. I went to the bathroom and cleaned myself up before damping a washcloth with warm water so I could wipe him off. Then I untied him carefully, massaging him limb by limb as he came down. And then I held him for awhile, stroking him gently, mindful of his welts, telling him how good he was, how much I loved him.

"I love you no matter what," I said into his ear as he nuzzled me.

"No matter what," he repeated, wrapping his arms tight around me.

**Live Bait**

_Tiger stripes. The red welts running up and down the length of your body. Beautiful and bright in the gray half dark. Almost enough to cover up the scratches on your ass. Deep. Like claw marks. Like an animal had gotten a hold of you._

_"What’s his name?" I asked finally, kissing the crook of your neck. Spooned together now, my clothes still on, you naked, the contrasting texture of our bodies sensual._

_"Randall. Randall Tier."_

_"How did you meet him?"_

_You smiled crookedly — an expression only I could probably detect._

_"He was a patient of mine, once. When he was young."_

_"Oh," I laughed, pressing the edge of my teeth to your shoulder. "Is this a pattern then, Doctor? Abducting former patients and making them lovers?"_

_"Not before you," you said._

_"Liar," I swatted your ass again. Your moan in response was little more than a sweet, aching sigh, but_ how _it made me throb again._

_"You know I hate lying, Hannibal," I said, grinding against you._

_Your whimpered — like a helpless little thing — and I wondered if you were playing for me or honestly felt that way. Or both, perhaps._

_"You know the killer in the spring? At the … gas station?" and I didn’t need to see your face clearly to know your lips were curled in distaste from the memory of that. Of me fucking you in that filthy gas station bathroom after being aroused by the crime scene._

_"Yeah?" My cock hardened again from just remembering._

_"I haven’t discussed it with Jack yet but … I went to visit Randall because he fits the profile."_

_You may as well have punched me in the gut with a brick._

_"What?" I managed after a moment._

_"Randall … fits the profile for those ‘animal’ killings that have been going on. I went to … visit him about it."_

_"And?"_

_You shrugged as if you were discussing how fine the weather was, and not a murderer on the loose who you’d fucked._

_"He … has grown into a very impressive young man," you said, running your fingers up my forearm, finally turning to me. "When he first came to me he was a frightened child who hated himself. But he has … embraced who he is and is becoming comfortable with that. At last. Remarkable boy. I could hardly resist."_

_When you kissed me it was bitter as sulfur._

_"I have to go," I said and I could tell you knew I was full of shit by the sardonic look in your eyes._

_But you were full of shit too. “Hardly resist”? Oh_ please _. Hannibal Lecter, I know you better than that. You planned it. You knew what would happen and you planned it. Just as you planned to the means by which I would find out._

_"Dear Will, you can’t still be jealous," you whispered._

_It was bait. Live bait, dangled on a barbed lure._

_I turned and glared at you, and, in doing so, happily impaled myself on your barbs. Felt the shudder and tearing and parting of my flesh as I did. At least for a moment._

_I wanted to say: fuck you._

_I wanted to say: did you really just fuck him to get to me? Or did you actually give a shit about him?_

_I wanted to say: I want you say those words about_ me.

_That I was your remarkable, irresistible — murderous — boy._

_I left you there, smirking into the darkness._

_I know you didn’t find contrition._


	58. Not Alone (Worst Punishment)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What's the worst punishment you've ever had?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Originally posted here.](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/98985517698/whats-the-worst-punishment-youve-ever-had)

> **What's the worst punishment you've ever had?**

 

Oh  _anon._ That's a little bit of low-hanging fruit, isn't it? A little overly obvious?

I know what you're expecting. You're expecting that I'm going to bring up some elaborate, near-torture experience. Like Hannibal stuck a candle in my ass and let it burn almost down to the nub. Or he once whipped me until I was nearly unconscious. Or maybe he just stuck me with clothespins, all over, until I was about ready to pass out. Maybe you're expecting knifeplay (which we've done) or maybe making me his slave for a day (which we've discussed but not done) or tied me up and left me . . . any number of brutal kinky things.

But the worst punishment wasn't any of these things. It wasn't when he spanked and fucked me so hard I literally couldn't sit for a few days (driving to work was  _hell_ ). Or the time he used an enema as punishment on me. (He loves them, but I  _hate_ them for myself, so he forced one on me once, and made me shit myself, and made me sit in it for a few hours.)

To be honest, I would rather sit in my shit for a few hours than go through the worst punishment Hannibal inflicted on me:

_completely ignoring me._

He had one of his elaborate dinner parties and I was, of course, supposed to be there. I was. But resentfully. I don't like his dinner party guests, usually. They seem overly vapid to me, and their conversations are banal enough that I'd rather dig my eyes out with a spoon than listen to them. Oh yes he invites some of your "mutual" acquaintances, like Jack (my boss) and Alana (my ex, his former mentee), etc. But the rest are high society folk, the kind of folk who stand around and gripe about things that have absolutely no connection or bearing to a reality that resembles mine, who talk about buying hundred dollar t-shirts just throwing them out after wearing it once. They talk about their children going to college and smirk about how they'll be "debt-free, thank goodness" thanks to the Trust Fund or some kind of inherited wealth -- and I just remember growing up so poor that I had to buy underwear from Goodwill and the Salvation Army sometimes. My dad and I would sit and figure out how much ramen we could buy and if that would last us for the week. The Dollar Store and I are still good friends, more out of habit than necessity, and I meticulously balance my checkbook (by hand, thank you), down to the last penny. I always know  _exactly_ what is in my bank accounts. Every day. I live with deprivation. I still tell myself I can't buy a new jacket for winter because last month I had a flat -- the tire couldn't even be repaired -- and the expense of that set me back enough that a new jacket seems out of the question.

It's ridiculous, because I  _can_  afford the new jacket. But the habit of not buying, of having to say  _no no no_ to everything is strong enough still. I even feel guilty eating out with Hannibal. He likes to go to  _expensive_ places. And I can afford it, actually, and I won't let him pay for my portion because that just makes me want to punch him in the face. (I'm not some fucking _charity case._ ) But I used to feel so guilty even spending the money that it would almost ruin the entire night.

Hannibal understands deprivation, I think, though he's not confessed to me the source of that -- whether it was material or emotional. It doesn't mater. He hoards food and he treats every single item in his possession with the same kind of care that poor people do. You don't just  _throw stuff away_ when you are poor, even when it's broken. You  _fix_ it. You try to take good care of it because you can't just afford to get a new one. Hannibal has the same habits. He might be vain and arrogant in his way, but I appreciate that he doesn't just discard things. That he has respect for his clothes and the things he owns. He takes care of them.

It means he's not like the -- people -- who frequent his parties, who have no clue what it's like to work a dead-end job, or shift work that means you never sleep properly and you're always exhausted, who have never had to sleep in their car for whatever reasons, who have never had to sacrifice or say  _no_ to anything in their lives.

At any rate, I endured this dinner party and the insufferable company because Hannibal likes to show off to these  _people_ for some reason and he wanted to show me off, and I was going to let him. But dinner had been served -- very elaborate, of course -- and someone said something really trifling about police brutality and how people should stop inciting the police and let them do their jobs. Something inane like that which got my hackles up, because I'd been a cop but I don't make excuses for police brutality and it makes me want to vomit every time I hear something about it.

My reply was sardonic and cutting, and though I can usually manage not being outright offensive, I was too tired and pissed off that night. There was a brief silence and Hannibal looked at me and there was, unmistakably, a warning in his eyes.

I had been  _rude._ And though I had reasons, I knew Hannibal's rules about dinner parties and his rules about rudeness. It was pretty much like walking into Saint Paul's Cathedral in Rome and pissing on the floor.

I knew I would be punished, so I shut my mouth and played nice the rest of the evening. I even attempted to be charming.

It didn't matter.

Once the guests had all been seen out, it was as if the winter had come, in great, cold white sheets and freezing winds. I tried to apologize to Hannibal and he ignored me. I tried to talk to him and he ignored me. He didn't acknowledge that I had said  _anything_ and his eyes never settled on me, but looked at some point  _through_ me. As if I wasn't even there. I was beneath even noticing.

This went on for a week. 

I tried to call him, but he would not pick up. I went to his house and he wouldn't answer the door, though I knew he was there.

I am a grown man and I can take care of myself. In the first few days, I figured that Hannibal would calm down and then be able to talk to me. That he was avoiding me because I had violated two of his great rules and he was so angry he was worried what he might do.

Once four and five days had passed and he said nothing, I began to really worry. I went to his house and he still didn't respond. I asked Alana if he had said anything to her recently and she said  _no_ and  _why?_

I began to imagine that he had, for some reason, packed up his house and was leaving. Leaving without so much as a "goodbye" even. I don't know why I thought that. It was completely irrational. In the time I'd known him he'd never once said anything about packing up and leaving. But then again . . .

The whole thing made me feel like my skin and flesh had been peeled away, exposing the bone beneath. Like I didn't know who I was any more. I was fevered flesh, anxious, and dizzy with  _need._ I  _needed_ him to acknowledge me. To  _see_ me. To tell me he  _knew_ me.

I thought: I'd rather go crazy than be ignored like this.

It was wholly irrational, but that's how I felt.

This feeling leaving eclipsed all my other worries -- that he had been physically hurt and needed help, he was sick, he was angry with me beyond reconciliation -- until on the seventh day of being completely ignored by Hannibal I went to his house and camped out on his doorstep. Like a fucking neurotic, psychopathic stalker.

I rang his doorbell, and knocked, and he didn't answer. I was starting to hyperventilate when I reached for my cell phone. I rarely bring the stupid thing out of the house, actually, because I am not keen on it. I was shaking as I dialed and I saw little white spots in my vision and the air around me was tight, so tight. And I didn't register until I had finished leaving him a message that I was having a panic attack, probably. Or something.

It was ridiculous, all things considered, and a good thing Hannibal finally  _noticed_ me because I was a shivering, sweating mess.

I sat curled up in his door half the night before he opened the door and gathered me into his house and his arms.

"Reckless," he chided, helping me up to his bathroom and filling a tub with hot water. He took my clothes off, and then his own, before pulling us both into the bathwater. He cradled me, my back to his chest, and between him and the water, I began to feel more like myself than I had in days. 

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," I said, over and over again, and he only said: "Sssh," and "It's done now."

"Please don't leave me," I begged, and to his credit Hannibal never acted as if what I felt was insignificant or pathetic as it actually was.

"Sssh," he said, hand heavy and reassuring in my hair. "You're not alone Will. I'm right here with you."

That's all I needed to hear.

I'm not particularly proud of my behavior, but, suffice to say, the punishment did its work. 


	59. Very Very Fragile (Aftercare)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Can you tell me about a time that Hannibal's aftercare was terribly needed and particularly enjoyable?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Originally posted here.](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/99250750678/can-you-tell-me-about-a-time-that-hannibals-aftercare)

[OOC: there is actually …  _no porn_ in this one? Just fluff. Fluff fluff fluff. And Will’s dogs. So.]

* * *

>  
> 
> **Can you tell me about a time that Hannibal's aftercare was terribly needed and particularly enjoyable?**

 

[After that terrific week-long imposed break from Hannibal](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/98985517698/whats-the-worst-punishment-youve-ever-had), wherein I had a chance to catch up on my crocheting and treated myself to a pedicure (or  _not_ ), I think Hannibal had the opportunity to see how massively hurtful his behavior was. Probably it was opening the door to find me half freezing and catatonic on his doorstep and whimpering. (A pitiful thing, really.)

Though this punishment was in some part warranted, Hannibal decided to apologize for his over-reaction _._

Not that he apologized in words, however. If he did I would have to check if I was having a nightmare or a hallucination of some kind. At any rate, rather than saying certain things like most people would (“I love you/I’m sorry”) Hannibal  _shows_  those things.

In the past his aftercare has included massages and feeding me whatever I requested, even when it was ridiculous (hey, sometimes I’ve requested things just to see if he would cook it or procure it). But this time he simply asked me what I wanted. At the time I wasn’t aware it had anything to do with aftercare, specifically, or apologizing. I just thought he was asking a question about our weekend or something. So I laughed and said I wanted to go to Italy because I heard the wine was cheap and the men were looser than even I was. Hannibal scowled at that so I modified and said a picnic. Like we had month ago. One of those long ambling walks through the woods, and a picnic. Preferably with the dogs because they liked running through the woods. Hannibal made a face at that, but relented.

So last Saturday he showed up at my house, bright and early and disgustingly cheerful. He packed half a pantry, of course, because Hannibal leaving the house without the right handkerchief and actual food to eat would signify something was wrong.

The first part of the pantry was just coffee, and eggs, and sausage — one of the first meals we shared together actually — and we sat outside on my patio to have breakfast. Hannibal even brought sausage for the dogs, who were obviously thrilled to have some delicious people food for their very own.

Later, in the afternoon, after I’d dressed and vaguely finger combed my hair, and we gathered all the dogs, and leashes (they don’t require leashes on walks, I only really have leashes just in case) and embarked on our picnic.

It was nice. The dogs frisked and frolicked and had a good time bounding and licking and smelling and wagging. Hannibal even played fetch with Winston, and was amused that Winston was not fooled when he feigned a few throws, but didn’t actually throw the stick, instead holding it behind his back.

"He’s a clever creature," Hannibal said simply, scratching Winston behind the ears. High praise indeed, but Hannibal seems to enjoy animals more than people sometimes. I think he likes their gentleness and their trusting, open natures.

The picnic itself was in a meadow, the grass yellow and peridot, the leaves of the nearby forest golden and brown and red. The air was musky with the smell of autumn, of the colder nights, and sizzled with the heat of the day, the still grubby Virginia humidity, as we spread a blanket and the picnic fare.

Hannibal made some kind of skirt steak salad with blue cheese, though he muttered about having to make several modifications to the original recipe, saying it was more of a spring recipe than an autumn one.

"It’s delicious," I said through a mouthful while the dogs all crouched in the grass, watching with mournful faces as we ate.

No worries, dear readers, Hannibal had some treats for them, and so did I, and when we finished eating the dogs got their fill and then went back to romping and rolling in the grass.

Hannibal and I were just sitting there together, shoulder to shoulder, enjoying the warm sunlight and the heat and nearness of each other. I was thinking: yes. This is it. This is heaven. The dogs frisking around and playing, their tails whirring like fans. Sitting here, next to Hannibal. My belly full and just feeling bright and alive.

I put my arm around him and leaned into him, my face into the crook of his neck. He relaxed easily, opening his body to me, supporting me.

"It’s possible I over-reacted to your comment at the dinner party," he said simply. And then it occurred to me that he’d done all this — breakfast, the picnic, putting up with my pack of mongrels even if meant he would be teasing dog hair out of his clothes for a week — because of me. Because he was sorry.

"You  _asshole_ ,” I said affectionately, pushing him to the ground, clambering on top of him and then just laying there. Ear to his chest. Listening to his heart there and thinking of how, despite the fact he always seems so in command, so in control, and so immutable — solid and intimidating as a mountain — Hannibal was actually very, very fragile in his own way.

He was, like me, a tea cup, shattered on the floor once.

But, unlike me, he’ll never admit to it. 


	60. With Deepest Regard

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Something which arrived at Will's earlier today, and was promptly read, and burned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Originally posted here.](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/99325167248/ooc-something-which-arrived-at-wills-earlier) More or less a teaser for the next chapter.

[OOC: Something which arrived at Will's today, and was promptly read, and burned.]

* * *

 

 

 

> _My Dearest Will,_
> 
> _I request the pleasure of your company this evening. Please wear the suggested attire and bring one of your more generic hunting knives. You can expect me to come collect you at 9 pm. If you decline, know that I will understand, and that I will not begrudge you, nor find you rude._
> 
> _With deepest regard,_
> 
> _Your Hannibal_


	61. Becoming (Will Topping)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Whats the hardest you've ever have been with hannibal while topping?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Originally posted here.](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/99406379308/whats-the-hardest-youve-ever-have-been-with-hannibal)

[OOC: The top is Will’s official answer. The bottom, in italics, is a less circumspect answer.

 **Warnings** for: violence, gore, implications of necrophilia, Will’s inappropriate murder boners.]

* * *

 

>  
> 
> **Whats the hardest you've ever have been with hannibal while topping?**

 

Obviously, like every single man I know, I carry around a special pencil that I use to determine the relative hardness of each erection I get. Every time I get a boner I simply tap it with the pencil and then record the hardness based on the sound of my dick being thwapped and how much it bounces.

Or  _not_.

Sorry anon, I couldn’t resist. There’s just something about quantitative asks that make me want to guffaw like an annoying, cocky as shit frat boy. “How big is it?” Oh, I don’t know, big enough? “How horny were you?” Horny enough I guess?

_Etcetera._

So when asking about hardness, or hardest … fuck if I know. I don’t really keep track that closely. I don’t have a pencil to go around tapping my every boner (thank goodness).

But to answer your question: it entirely depends. Four times in which I’ve been  _fantastically, gloriously, painfully hard,_ in no particular order:

  1. The first time Hannibal stripped for me. He had on a three piece suit, of course, and he took his time, languorously peeling it off, piece by piece, until I was panting, and ragged with desire, and wanted nothing more than to sink my fingers and teeth and dick into him and  _fuck_ until I saw white. He obliged me.
  2. [Being away from Hannibal for a week](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/98985517698/whats-the-worst-punishment-youve-ever-had). It was the morning after I camped out on Hannibal’s doorstep. I woke up in his bed, his arms, with his naked body pressed to mine, and his smell — florid, masculine — engulfing me. My dick went from limp to throbbing, and nearly parallel with my stomach, in  _minutes_. I don’t think Hannibal was really awake when I rolled him onto his own stomach. But he was wide awake after I started thrusting into him with my tongue; and moaning when I lubed my fingers and scissored them inside him; and then writhing against me as I spread his thighs and sank into him. Make-up sex was always amazing, but with Hannibal — well — I thought my dick couldn’t get any harder that morning, but when I heard the needy little noises he made as I fucked him, I was proven very wrong.
  3. We were coming home from a date last night. We were in Hannibal’s Bentley and for some reason — I am not entirely sure what — I just  _wanted_ him. I wanted to fuck him, desperately, and I couldn’t wait until we got home. So I fucked him in the backseat of his car. Desperate, scrabbling, clothes off only enough for me to push my aching cock into him and just  _thrust_ while he shook and moaned beneath me.
  4. I didn’t top in this once instance, but it’s memorable enough to mention. One time Hannibal tied me up, spread legged, hoisted me from the ceiling in his bedroom, and then used me as a fucktoy for a whole afternoon.  _And wouldn’t let me come._ It was a kind of wonderful, delicious agony. He’d rim me, tongue lapping in and out, in and out, and then he’d  _pull away_  just when I thought I might come. He’d slowly finger me, pushing in just deep enough to brush my prostrate until I was shaking. He fucked me and came inside me, and I was begging him  _please please please_ and he still wouldn’t let me. He spanked me too, and dribbled wax on me, and pinched my nipples, and face fucked me. I was completely exhausted, my cock aching, leaking all over the place, when he finally knelt. He told me: “You can come when you are ready, Will”, and then took me in his mouth. I came, all right.



I hope, anon, that while there was no official measure of hardness, that this answer is nonetheless  _satisfying._

 

**Becoming**

_It’s satisfying. Watching his smirk ebb, his smooth face and slippery little eyes fill with fear. Listening to him beg._

_"Please," he blubbers. Like a coward. Like a bully._

_Clark Ingram. With his graveyard of bodies — all women. Who he’d targeted and courted. Was convinced were “worthy” of him. Until they rejected him. What better way to show them the error of their ways then, and to own them and keep them, than to fuck and kill them? And not, necessarily, in that order._

_Clark Ingram. Social worker, so soft hearted to his clients, even the most difficult. All under his care. All afraid. Manipulated by him, like pawns. Not living, breathing people, with their own thoughts. Their own feelings. There own needs. No. Just_ things  _for Ingram to do what he wants with them. Just like the women._

_I want to throw up, but I take a breath._

_I am Will Graham. It’s 10:10 pm outside of Charles Town, West Virginia. The city lights are dim, distant. The woods are dark, and deep, but not lonely. No. Hannibal waits behind me, dominating with his presence. Skin dark in the shadows, eyes amber as little, dying coals. Sometimes when he moves I swear I can see horns, or barbs — like antlers — growing out of his head. But it’s just the black shadows of naked tree branches._

_This is just Hannibal. He is a devil, but he is not mythical. And sometimes, when the moonlight is right, I can see he is beaming at me with a kind of incandescent awe._

_I hear Ingram but I also don’t hear when he tells me where he put the bodies. It comes from some other place. Perhaps some other Will Graham is here, at 10:14 pm outside of Charles Town West Virginia. Some other Will Graham tilts Clark Ingram’s neck back, runs the old hunting blade over his bare, exposed throat — a beautiful throat, pale marble gray in this light — and cuts._

_Some other Will Graham pulls, using all his not inconsequential strength to tear the man’s throat open. Some other Will Graham feels the gouts of blood as they pour down over Ingram’s body, pooling on the forest floor.  Some other Will Graham licking his lips and tasting the warm bitterness there, blood freckling his face and the clear plastic suit he wears. Some other Will Graham who Hannibal clutches, licking the blood from my face, sucking the blood from his lips and tongue._

_"The body," I manage after a moment._

_"But what shall we take, first?" Hannibal nuzzles me._

_"You decide," I whisper._

_He cuts away what he wants and we decide we won’t properly display the body. There’s no reason to. He was rude to Hannibal in life — and that’s what led him here. But in following Ingram one night (to ascertain how he’d take him), Hannibal had discovered his other secrets. The ones that justify hacking him to pieces. Strewing him all across the woods. Some bits tossed in the icy river. No more than scraps for hungry animals, for the meal worms and grubs which are still active this time of year. Not worthy of display, or even being properly found, except maybe as a few bone fragments here and there._

_We make sure to leave no evidence, of course, to manipulate and clean up what we can. It’s only about midnight now, the distant city lights all the dimmer. Though it’s chillingly cold, my cock is hard. The smell of the blood still perfumes the air, hot, heavy, cloying. I still feel Hannibal’s mouth on me._

_I can’t wait until we get back to Wolf Trap. I can’t._

_Hannibal had parked his Bentley off a small, narrow dirt road, almost a mile away. Our suits and filthy and bloody when we make it back, but I don’t care. I push him into the wide backseat, on his hands and knees, and peel out of the plastic of my suit, and out of my clothes just enough to free my throbbing cock. Pull his plastic suit and his clothes out of the way just enough for me to cup the warmth of his naked ass, to feel his hole tight against my salvia slicked fingers. To thrust my cock into him._

_I moan louder than I should, but I don’t care. I grab onto Hannibal, the spots of blood on his plastic suit still faintly warm and slippery, and fuck him. The scent of the blood, the memory of cutting Ingram open, the heat and smell of Hannibal — all crash against me — until I am quivering, groaning, coming._

_"Oh fuck," I hear myself say, shaking all over, sweating._

_"Indeed," Hannibal gasps wryly._

_"Yeah," I manage, my hands still shaking as I zip up._

_On the way home I laugh. I cry. I tell Hannibal to pull over so I can throw up._

_He lets me be. He says: “I’m here with you Will. You’re not alone,” and: “We’re almost home, Will.”_

_I can’t say I don’t know why I let him convince me to do this. That I wasn’t excited when I got home this evening to find his note, and the clear plastic suit on my bed. The note had been handwritten on thick, sepia colored paper. The black letters curled across the paper sharp and graceful as barbed lures._

 

 

> _My Dearest Will,_
> 
> _I request the pleasure of your company this evening. Please wear the suggested attire and bring one of your more generic hunting knives. You can expect me to come collect you at 9 pm. If you decline, know that I will understand, and that I will not begrudge you, nor find you rude._
> 
> _With deepest regard,_
> 
> _Your Hannibal_

_It had felt like reading some kind of love poem. It physically hurt, having to burn that note._

_When we finally get home — to Wolf Trap — the dogs all wake up, barking, crowding us with wagging tails and cold wet noses. They lick and whine before resettling in their beds, leaving damp streaks and clumps of hair all over our plastic suits._

_It’s almost like nothing even happened._

_We strip, and shower. I throw all my clothes in the washing machine, on the hottest setting possible, and take apart the hunting knife to clean it. We scrub the plastic suits in my bathtub, and then scrub the bathroom after. Hannibal tells me I shouldn’t be worried. We’ve obviously no discernible motive. If questioned we are each other’s alibis, of course. But there is no reason anyone should ever suspect us, much less come to my house swabbing for evidence._

_Nonetheless I scrub my tub until my fingers are cracked and begin to bleed. Hannibal, lips curled in exasperation, pulls me out of the bathroom, telling me I need sleep._

_I can’t though, so I down whiskey. Two fingers and I’m starting a third and a fourth while Hannibal simply holds me and strokes my hair. Here, in my bed, in the buttery lamplight, his face is plain and harsh and sensuous. He’s wearing only his boxers, his hair soft and unfinished, smelling of my shampoo._

_My Hannibal._

_"Why Ingram?" I ask finally._

_"He was rude to me," Hannibal says simply._

_"No, I mean … why share him?"_

_Hannibal is quiet for a moment._

_"When I found out he was not just … rude … I thought you might enjoy the opportunity."_

_"What opportunity?"_

_The questions scuttled around in my mind: For sating my long pent up desires? For embracing my own nature, as he has so often insisted?_

_"For a reckoning," he says simply. "What he did to those women … and how he manipulated his clients …" Hannibal tsked._

_I snort but I don’t say anything about the obvious similarities between Hannibal and Ingram._

_"Please, Hannibal," I say. "This is not about justice."_

_"For you it is," he says gently, simply. "For you it always is, my Will." Hands coiling around me, drawing me closer. Into a kiss, languid and intimate. I wrap my arms around him in return, murmuring into his lips about how much I love him, how much I want him. How much I need him._

_He takes off my clothes — just a t-shirt and boxer briefs now — kissing me all over, whispering “remarkable boy” into my skin over and over. He laps at my fingers as if lapping at the blood which is no longer there. Straddles me and sinks onto my cock, his body still open and wet from earlier, traces of my cum still inside him. It makes it feel all the more — intimate — as he rocks his hips and tells me how proud he is, how pleased._

_It doesn’t take me long. I finish inside him again, whimpering his name._

_I close my eyes and I want nothing more than to peel out of my disgusting skin._

_"No Will," Hannibal’s hands on my face. Then his arms around me again. "No," he says, kissing my shoulder. "Don’t go inside Will. Stay here. Stay with me," he says._

_His kisses, his gentle hands, his warmth — return me to myself._

_It’s 3:46 am. My name is Will Graham. I am in Wolf Trap, Virginia. Hannibal Lecter sleeps next to me. My dogs sigh in the room next door, and the back door bangs now and again when the wind blows hard._

_It’s almost like any other night._


	62. 69

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> have you and hannibal ever 69ed before? if you did,was it good?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Originally posted here.](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/99489271663/have-you-and-hannibal-ever-69ed-before-if-you-did-was)

 

> **have you and hannibal ever 69ed before? if you did,was it good?**

 

Anon, I am  _scandalized. Scandalized._

After all the posts with mentions of Kinbaku, whipping and paddling and dragon tail smacking (oh my), wax dripping, bondage, Hannibal using me as a fucktoy, group sex, oral sex, rimming, waterplay, and erotic enemas — not to mention the stuff which  _hasn’t_ yet been mentioned, like Hannibal’s violet wand — I am astonished you would ask about such an activity.

Hannibal and I would  _never do such a thing ever_ as to simultaneously put out mouths upon each other’s genitals. 

There was never a time, when, a few weeks after we started seeing each other, that I woke up in Hannibal’s bed and we both had morning hard-ons which we sated by languidly twining around each other, mouths sloppy, wet, and warm as we sucked one another to orgasm.

We’ve never ended a night at my home, after putting the dogs to sleep, by kissing while slowly stroking each other’s cocks to hardness, and then, lying on our sides, so we could take each other in our mouths.

There was never that notable time when Hannibal began by swirling his tongue around the head of my cock, teasing my slit, and sucking me just around the head, exerting wet, hot pressure with his lips, his tongue, before sliding down my shaft with broad swipes of his tongue, and taking my balls — one and then the other — into his mouth and sucking. Since his cock was not deep in my throat already, I had no need to moan against his own, thick shaft, and feel him shiver from the pleasurable vibrations of that moan traveling through him. And since this didn’t happen, Hannibal most certainly did not stop sucking my balls, instead moving back, lips on the crease between my thighs, and then further back, his tongue first circling, then thrusting in my tender hole. You see, Hannibal hadn’t mounted me about an hour earlier, and I hadn’t been quivering to feel him slide inside me. I hadn’t groaned for him to  _fuck me_  and  _come inside me, please_. So when he began to fuck me with his tongue, I wasn’t already sensitive, and I didn’t get all the harder, imagining him licking what was left of his own cum out of me. Hannibal’s tongue didn’t make me come, whimpering, my mouth still around his cock while his own orgasm filled my mouth.

Nope.

Absolutely not. And even if it did happen, all of that sounds really unpleasant.  

Besides, you all how I feel about having a warm, hard cock in my mouth, or having another man suck my cock. Neither of these things would obviously  _ever_  happen. 

 

 **tags:** #there was also not that time #when hannibal strung me up upside down #and fucked my mouth with his cock while he sucked on mine  #the rush of blood to my head #coupled with my orgasm #made me see red for a few glorious #pulsating moments


	63. Arriving

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What's an intimate routine or activity y'all enjoy, and why? How do those little mundane moments help you feel close?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Originally posted here.](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/99670591688/we-hear-a-lot-about-your-wild-times-please-dont-ever)

 

> **We hear a lot about your wild times. Please don't ever stop! It's lovely. However, I'm curious as to y'all's habits outside full on sexual expression. What's an intimate routine or activity y'all enjoy, and why? How do those little mundane moments help you feel close?**

 

There was an anon who once asked about romantic gestures, and I suppose today I am just languid enough (it is a Friday, and it was a long week) to answer with more than sarcasm. 

There is a feeling we all yearn for, I think. It’s like walking down a lonely, black road on a night without moon or stars. The only light is from houses nearby, the light spilling like warm butter into the dark. And sometimes you stop and look into the windows of those houses and you just feel a pull in your gut. Some kind of wanting. A hook you swallowed once, now lodged deep down in the belly, which still tugs and pulls at you. 

I felt it all the time before Hannibal. A sort of tearing ache. Oh there were times it abated, notably with [James](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/94170012588/would-you-ever-consider-hooking-up-with-trans-men), but it never really left me. I still feel it sometimes, to be honest, I think that’s just part of being human. But with Hannibal it either doesn’t matter, or, it subsides so thoroughly that there are moments I forget I ever felt such a thing. 

Sometimes those moments are after we’ve finished having sex and lie together, holding one another, warm and safe and sated. Sometimes it’s in the mornings when I have stayed overnight at his house; I hear him humming as I come down the stairs, as the smell of sausage and eggs and freshly brewed coffee comes wafting towards me. I know, as I wrap my arms around him, that I am, in some way,  _home_.

Sometimes it’s in those moments we are reading together, in bed, or on my couch, or in his library, and the only sound is Hannibal occasionally clearing his throat (it’s his way of  _objecting_ to what he has just read), and the turn of pages. I’ll sigh and take a swig of whiskey, wallowing in the stillness, in being with him in such a profound and simple way.

Sometimes it’s when he’s decided that my hair has grown too long and the split ends are making him mad, or that my beard needs some trimming. So I sit outside on the back step of my house, dogs whisking around my ankles, while Hannibal trims my hair and my beard. There is such comfort to the feel of his hands in my hair, the gentle way he will tilt my head. The way he runs his palm over my throat after trimming my beard, wiping away any errant bits of stubble.

Sometimes it’s when Hannibal is wearied of wrangling prickles and twigs out of the dogs’ scruffy fur, and decides to bathe and groom my dogs — all of them — his lips stooped in such a serious frown as he wrestles with their barking, wriggling, licking, wagging bodies — I always end up laughing myself silly, and kissing him.

Sometimes it’s when a light goes out in Hannibal’s house — a ceiling light, stuck high, high above and well out of reach if one doesn’t have a good ladder — or his garbage disposal gets blocked up, or his bathroom sink gets backed up, or the gutters of his house are overflowing with leaves, or one of his wooden floorboards comes loose, or his Bentley needs an oil change. I fix these things for him. It’s the handyman in me, the man my father, a boat mechanic, raised me to be. The man I still can be sometimes, even after all these years of hunting down criminals and killers.  _If it’s broke you fix it_ , my Dad used to say. So like my Dad, if I see something that needs fixing in Hannibal’s house, I get out my toolbox and I fix it. It’s not that Hannibal doesn’t notice these things, of course, or he doesn’t know how to fix them on his own, or, in the case of the gutters, can’t hire someone to come clean them out. But just like I let him trim my hair or groom my dogs, he lets me do this for him.  _Quid pro quo._ And while fixing things with my own hands is deeply satisfying to me, it’s even more satisfying to come in from the garage, wiping grease and oil off my hands, and see Hannibal’s soft look of appreciation. Or to climb down from Hannibal’s roof, chilled by the wind and smelling of mold and leaf rot, and have a warm mug of cider waiting in the kitchen as “thanks”.

Sometimes too, it’s when Abigail calls. [She’s the girl who would have bled out when her father nicked her throat, if Hannibal had not stepped in](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/98810629383/has-hannibal-ever-been-nervous-about-anything-in-the). For better or for worse, since she doesn’t really have anyone, Hannibal and I are her “fathers” in some ways. I don’t talk about her here because I like to protect her. But she moved into her own place in August, and is juggling a job and some community college classes. And sometimes she calls Hannibal’s house when we’re both there and we talk to her on speaker phone. Hannibal will slide his hand over the counter and lace our fingers together while I’m telling Abigail how proud I am of her, and how good she is doing. Hannibal will just smile at me like he is the most contented man in all the world. As if by just reassuring Abigail, I have somehow made something  _right_ in the universe.

Sometimes it’s waking up in an empty bed and knowing that he is thinking about me too, when he gets up.

At any rate, all of these moments are moments when I am no longer wandering outside, on that cold, dark, starless and moonless night. These are moments when I am no longer just staring into warmly lit houses and  _yearning._ These are moments when the front door of one of those houses has finally opened, and I am allowed inside that golden warmth. These are moments I feel that I have somehow  _arrived._  


	64. Act of Seeing (Trans Women and Nonbinary Folk)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'm curious if you've ever had any experience with trans women and\or nonbinary?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Originally posted here.](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/100039168303/hello-will-3-youve-mentioned-before-that-you-had-some)

> **Hello,Will :3 You've mentioned before that you had some experience with trans men. I'm curious if you've ever had any experience with trans women and\or nonbinary?**

 

Do I like the needy little noises Hannibal makes in the back of his throat when I’m buried deep in him?

Yes and yes and yes.

Since the occasional woman shows up on my radar, and trans women being women, it’s not much of a shock to say I have experience sleeping with and dating trans women. Non-binary is a bit trickier for me because it can be hard to tell someone is non-binary (unless they are blatantly androgynous or ambiguous) until you ask. But they do indeed show up on the radar too, on occasion.

Unlike my other lists, which are samplings, this one is actually a  _complete list_ because well, I just don’t have as much experience with non-men folk in general. As with [my list of trans men](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/94170012588/would-you-ever-consider-hooking-up-with-trans-men), I use the terms these women and people actually used for themselves.

  1. The first trans woman I actually slept with was in high school. I’ll call her Jenny. She was a sophomore who’d just come out, and I was a senior who’d just moved to the school (my dad and I moved a lot, so I was always the new kid at school). Though transsexuality wasn’t as discussed when I was still in high school, people were actually not total assholes to her. Yes, there were assholes, of course (there always are, unfortunately), but the teachers and administrators actually worked with her and her family, she was able to use the girl’s restroom and locker rooms, be called by the name she wanted to be called, wear whatever clothes she wanted so long as it abided by the dress code, and the kids who tried to bully her were suspended. Still, it’s not easy being a queer teen, much less a trans one, so she didn’t have a lot of friends, despite her macabre sense of humor (she liked Jonathan Swift and dead baby jokes) and her generally positive disposition. We became friends because we were both wandering around the margins of the high school hierarchy. Over time, we became make-out buddies. One day we ditched school to have sex — it was her idea. She was a virgin and wanted to see what it would be like, if she would like it all, given her dysphoria. And I was the closeted twink who wanted to suck off the football team but not, obviously, get the shit beat out of me. So it made sense at the time. It seemed like a good idea. And it was — good. The both of us naked, the cloudy gray light falling over us through the blinds in my bedroom. She hadn’t started hormones (there wasn’t the same precedent for those things when I was a teen), but … she was who she was. If that makes sense. Her smooth pale limbs, the sharp juts of her hips. When she took off her bra she smiled sheepishly at me, because it was full of tissue paper. And I laughed, and said something about her being a  _typical teen girl_ because  _all the girls_ seemed to stuff their bras at one point or another. Then I touched her nipples, and cupped her breasts. Because sex is really an act of the imagination in some ways. Not a cheap, lazy fantasy either, the kind of thing you pull up on Pornhub or rent for a few bucks and you credit card number (not that those are bad, but … most porn is the fast food of sex, in my opinion. It’s cheap, easy, and can be filling for a little while, but mostly just sits like a stone in your stomach if you get too much of it). Sex is an act of believing and seeing with your whole body and — kitschy as this sounds — your whole heart. So I cupped her breasts and I touched and sucked her clit, and I showed her how to touch me, and where to put her hands, and let her suck me in return. Neither of us came, but it was still good. We had sex a few times after that, and she decided she might like girls better. I graduated and went to college and last I heard from her she was dating another girl, who just happened to be president of the drama club or something.
  2. I met Marcie when she was still going by Marco. She was a Creole drag queen who didn’t know if she wanted surgery or hormones but hated being a man. I knew her when I’d just joined the police academy in New Orleans. I used to tease her about the name  _Marco_ because it seemed entire inappropriate for the svelte, graceful person she was, with the easy sashay in her walk. She said it was an enormously cliché name, and then turned it into a game of sexual Marco Polo. We didn’t date, we mostly fooled around. But sometimes she slept over. She liked best to wake me in the mornings by stroking me off, slowly, while staring down at me, watching my face as I came. Near the end of our relationship she started calling herself Marcie and taking off-market hormones. She couldn’t afford a therapist, and besides, she didn’t want “no head doctor in her head”.
  3. For a short while I was a dominant to a trans woman. I’ll call her Sandra. We weren’t a good fit. At the time I was still trying things out, really, and our relationship confirmed for me that I was much more of a submissive than a dominant. Sandra was exhilarated to have had bottom surgery and to feel free, finally, to experiment, to be the woman she felt herself to be. Despite our mismatch, I can’t deny that we enjoyed ourselves thoroughly in the time we did spend with each other. She was _very_ good at following orders, and since she was also a masochist, I’d reward her with a spanking or a paddling. She said it made her feel feminine and demure to follow my orders, to please me, to get on her hands and knees and suck my cock. (And yes, I know enough for that to make me slightly uncomfortable, even now, but I am not arrogant enough to judge what makes someone else feel good, either. Especially not a trans woman.) The last time we had sex, her ass was red and glowing from a spanking, and she was mewling, begging me to fuck her cunt, _please, please._ I obliged, opening her gently with my lubed fingers, and then my mouth and tongue, and finally rolling her thighs open and sinking into her while she whispered _fuck_ and made desperate sounds in the back of her throat.
  4. After I was first hired for my current teaching position, I was with a non-binary person. They had an irreverent sense of humor which usually meant we would be talking about something totally unrelated, and they would turn it into something dirty. We met at a movie theater one night, a late showing of some really horrible slasher film. We were the only two people in that theater. We laughed our way through the film, and then went for coffee after. I’d never really been attracted to someone who was non-binary before, but there was something about this person. They reminded me of sunflowers. A week later we went to another horror movie together, but we never really finished. At least not the film. It’s hard to laugh even at the worst slasher film in all of history when someone is leaning over and stroking your cock through your jeans, and then is kneeling on a sticky, popcorn kernel riddled floor (and for this I shall forever be in awe of this person) to very enthusiastically suck you off. I never got to return the favor, unfortunately, because I never saw this person again.
  5. Last (but never least, of course), was another non-binary person, actually a student at the academy, but not one of mine. I remember going to my classes and seeing this shock of purple every morning, and wondering what the hell that was. Until one day that shock of purple and its owner — the purple was hair to be precise, belonging to a rather short, cheerfully disposed person — ran right into me, scattering a mess of papers I’d been grading. This person apologized profusely and kept blushing and fumbling and bumbling over their words, until I was just laughing because it was ridiculous. I usually make it a policy not to fraternize with people who are current students, even if they are not my students, but this one … well, they had a “puppy face” I found difficult to resist, and they sucked cock like a champ and made the most amazing sounds in bed as they spread me open and fucked me. I can still get hard remembering the sounds they made, actually.




	65. I Want You The Whole Fucking Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Is it selfish to say I want you the whole fucking time?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Originally reblogged here.](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/100168807418/is-it-selfish-to-say-i-want-you-the-whole-fucking)

> **“Is it selfish to say I want you the whole fucking time? I want you in my head. I want you in my bed. I want your hands all over my thighs. Give me your tightest grip. I want to exhale all of my loneliness and sadness to you. I want to breathe you in. I want you. I want you and I want you to want me too.”**

—  _how do i say this without sounding desperate?_  (via [dahlia—noir](http://dahlia--noir.tumblr.com/))

[thebxb](http://tmblr.co/mLipAeNwo2OwszHqMrOlQng) (via [lezbeontalk](http://lezbeontalk.tumblr.com/))

(Source: [talkingoutsoft](http://talkingoutsoft.tumblr.com/))

(via [merely the ink](http://suntosirius.tumblr.com/post/100168195837/is-it-selfish-to-say-i-want-you-the-whole-fucking))

 

 **tags:** #dear hannibal #when you get home today #take your shoes off #nice and meticulous as you do #remove your jacket and hang it #lintless and pristine in its proper place in the front closet #then climb the stairs gracefully as you do  #come and find me erect #flushed #wanting #spread and ready for you #on the bed #come and exhale your day into my hot  #tender flesh #let me breathe you in #and wrap my body around you #tight #coiled #while you rock inside me  #and i murmur how much i love this #how much i love you


	66. And Surrender

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Has Hannibal ever made you dress in women's lingerie?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted [here](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/102016661678/has-hannibal-ever-made-you-dress-in-womens-lingerie).

> **Has Hannibal ever made you dress in women's lingerie? Or do you have an interest in it at all?**

 

I always wonder about these asks of "Hannibal did this to you" or "has Hannibal ever made you . . .?"

While I am a bottom and a submissive, last time I checked I'm definitely not a poseable doll or an object. Things are not done _to me_ so much as _with me._ And Hannibal can't make me  _do_ anything that I don't  _want_ to first, or didn't first agree to. 

That aside, what might surprise you (or not) is that Hannibal is, more often the one to dress in women's lingerie. I don't look bad in it (I've been told), but, between the two of us Hannibal is the one who likes to slip a pair of panties on and slink around the house.

It's absolutely sinful. The word  _sylphlike_  was invented to describe Hannibal Lecter padding up and down the length of his bedroom, his legs freshly shaven, black silk stockings outlining the taut, and sensuous curves of his leg muscles. _Svelte,_ the way his waist tapers, almost delicately, when he puts on the matching black corset -- the one where his nipples just peek out over the top, dark as old blood, sensitive and tempting. There are no words in any of the languages I speak for when he turns his back to me and bends over the end of the bed, presenting me with the silky curve of his ass. His black panties are stark against his pale skin when he says that I should come and fuck him.

Sometimes he even begs me, lips curled as if in distaste, but then, as soon as my hands are on him -- his nipples, smoothing over his ass, his legs, pulling his milky thighs open wide, wider, my fingers slipping beneath the panties to circle his warm entrance -- well. That distaste evaporates into small moans and grunts of wanting.

Sometimes I've even had him (or he me?) with just enough lube, just enough, his hole still tight, but clenching around my fingers as he groans for _more, more, please Will, please,_ the words breaking and shattering even before they fall from his lips, even before I unzip my fly, and move just enough of my clothes out of the way, and pull his panties aside just enough -- to push into him. Slow at first, then harder because he keeps begging me between small, keening noises, until I'm burning fingerprints into his thighs as I fuck him into the mattress, telling him what a good whore he is, and asking him who owns his tight little hole.

There is something infinitely pleasing too, watching Hannibal in languor after he's come in my hand (at my command). He unfurls like an ocean wave -- having crested and broken -- now spreading silkily across the shore. Relaxed, the fine lines in the corners of his eyes and mouth eased away. His whole body stretched out before me, his thighs parted enough to let me settle between them. As he takes my clothes off, slowly, he kisses me and I sometimes taste -- more than feel -- the little smiles in those kisses. Taste like my precum on his tongue. Taste like his desire for me, wet as the air before rain. Taste like our mouths and bodies open to each other.

And as he straddles me -- still in his panties, his stockings, and his corset, his hair wrecked, the backs of his thighs reddened from earlier -- and as he pins my hands over my head and pushes back down onto me, still wet from my cum inside him -- I'm not wondering who is doing what to whom, or if anyone here is being made to do anything. It's just our bodies: our skin, our sweat, our moans, our hands, our mouths. And as he takes me inside him -- again, again -- I sink deeper, and, surrender.


	67. Alpha Dog

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Have you ever had problems with your dogs while Hannibal was over?

> **Have you ever had problems with your dogs while Hannibal was over? (Leaving presents, chewing stuff, typical dog stuff?)**

 

Nope. My dogs know when they are in the presence of an alpha, and Hannibal is definitely an alpha. Plus, he tends to bring them treats of the sausage and home-baked dog cookies variety. 

I can only think of two issues, which weren’t really problems or issues.

First, it took Winston some time to warm up to Hannibal. 

By the by, this is Winston:

He is a piebald mutt, and entirely, utterly, devoted to me like none of my other dogs seem to be. He is also a good judge of character, so it’s curious that he seemed wary of Hannibal for several months. He used to growl at him, actually. Sometimes he cocks his head and looks at Hannibal curiously, as if he is still uncertain.  

Second, there was little Zoe:

She looks mean because of the underbite, but don’t let that fool you. She is a tiny, furry, ball of fluff who would lick your face off if given half a chance. 

Hannibal wasn’t sure what to make of her at first because she liked to follow him everywhere. And hop into his lap. And, if he stayed overnight with me, he’d often enough wake up with her curled on top of him in some fashion. When he started leaving clothes in my place, she had a tendency to go looking for them and crawl into the dresser drawer if it happened to be open. I found her napping there a few times, a furry puddle of contentment. 

One day Hannibal happened to leave a sweater out on the bed as he was shaving and then dressing. The sweater was cashmere and one of Hannibal’s favorites. While Hannibal was shaving, Zoe hopped onto the bed, curled up on his sweater, and fell asleep. 

When I found him — staring at her  small, slumbering form — he looked like a man faced with a soul shattering dilemma. Eventually she did wake up on her own and move.

Oh, Zoe is also a habitual shedder. I think she’s just old because I’ve tried different dog shampoos and herbal treatments and whatnot, but she never seems to stop shedding. 

So when she curled up on Hannibal’s sweater, naturally, she left tufts of white fur all over which he had to spend a good half hour getting out, all the while making faces like a cat who’s just tasted spoiled milk. 

Later in the day Hannibal was sitting by the fireplace reading, and lo, little Zoe scampered up to him, clambered in his lap, and fell asleep after slobbering and shedding all over his freshly de-furred sweater.

Hannibal got this look on his face like “help me, Will,  _help me_ " and then finally resigned himself. I caught him smiling, quite contently, while he read and petted her. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [OOC: I kept Zoe's name, though the dog actors usually do not have the same name as their character.]


	68. Pretty When I Cry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Have you ever cried during sex, or made someone else cry during sex (or both)?

[OOC: Face-fucking, breath-play, implied necrophilia, inappropriate murder husband boners, Hannibal being a poncy git, tonal shifts like woah.

The top part is the official answer, the bottom has some extra, withheld details.]

 

> **Dear Will, you look so pretty when you cry. Have you ever cried during sex, or made someone else cry during sex (or both)?**

 

To be honest anon, that is a little creepy. How do you know what I look like when I cry? (And, if this happens to be Freddie Lounds, I don’t need to remind you I have a  _restraining_ order against you, and this would probably furnish proof of violating that, wouldn’t it? Other readers, feel free to ignore this aside.)

Also, when I cry, the last thing I feel is “pretty”. More like wrecked, snot congested, shitty, desolate, exhilarated, wiped out, exhausted, amazing, alive — take your pick. But not “pretty”.

I have cried during sex though, and before and after. I’ve also made others cry. It comes with the territory. Sex tends to release certain hormones (hello oxytocin), and hormones make people react in all kinds of interesting ways, including, yes, crying. Not to mention that pleasure itself makes people react in all kinds of interesting ways.

As I don’t think I’m the best judge of how I look when I cry (I can’t see myself that well, unless there is a mirror involved), I am going to hand this over to Hannibal.

* * *

Dear Anonymous:

Despite the somewhat disconcerting nature of your query — and I feel compelled to warn you to reconsider such queries in the future — you have somehow ascertained correctly. Will does indeed look very becoming when he cries.

At times he has cried from pleasure, and an overload of sensations, as he did the first time I used a violet wand on him, or some memorable occasions I have spent the better part of an entire night spanking, whipping, caning, and dripping candle wax on him.

Other times he cries for entirely different reasons.

Will will disagree with me, but, he is a delectable, delicate creature, sensuous and attuned to his body in such a way I have rarely witnessed in all my years of medical and psychological practice. Despite his occasional outbursts and episodes, I’ve never had a finer, more satisfyingly pliant submissive than Will. His body is more than a canvass to paint markings and bruises upon; he is an instrument to be played, but with full reverence and complete regard for the remarkable nature of the instrument.

One way that I have played him and produced tears, many times, is with his eyes glossy with pleasure after I’ve stroked him to orgasm with my hand. His beautiful lips are slack and half parted before I’ve even brought my cock to his mouth, and before he has even begun to suck me. He begins by just lightly mouthing the tip, then with quick darts of his pink tongue, and finally opening to me and allowing my shaft to slide into his mouth. He is good to me there, his mouth warm and wet as he swirls his tongue, as he sucks. When I put my hand in his dark, sweaty curls, he knows what I want and opens wider to me, taking me as deep as he can, until the head of my cock presses the back of his throat, and I hear the residual gagging. Such a lovely, obedient, and wanting sound. Holding his face in my hands, I thrust. Shallow and slowly and first, and then increasing in tempo and force until he is gasping and gagging around me, his throat contracting, his body trembling and sweating. At that point, anonymous, his lips are red, red as fresh blood, and the little sounds he makes as he struggles to breathe are almost as exquisite as his complete compliance. The way he allows his mouth to be used in such a coarse, rough way. There tears then: leaking from his blue eyes as I push deep into him and come. Tears which he wipes from his face as he swallows, and tries to catch his breath.

Another way I have played dear Will in such a manner to produce tears is with my hands, late one evening a few weeks ago. We were lying together in my bed, warm and naked, having shared nor more than a few kisses and chaste touches for the entire day. Will was complaining about grading papers. I had had a difficult client that day and though Will had a right to his aggravation and complaints, I found I did not have the mental reserves left to be attentive. So I put my hand over his mouth, silencing him, and said: “Ssssh.” I began to kiss him then, first on the collar bone, and then moving down his body. He fell silent, but the kind of silence which anticipates and is full of want, and noise. At first I only kept my hand onhis mouth, stifling his little moans and gasps as I sucked his nipples. But then my hand moved from his mouth to his throat, tightening around the thick cords of his neck.

"Mmmm," he managed as I squeezed his throat, and took his half hard shaft in my mouth. His face was rosy as a spring dawn while I sucked him. I tightened and loosened my hand by turns just to see his face darken.

I straightened, and, rising, put my other hand around his throat and squeezed, until only a trickle of breath passed his lush lips. I kissed him then, feeling the faintest puffs of air against my own lips. He had already surrendered then, his eyes rolled back as if in agony or ecstasy (so much the same), his face slackening, the tears spilling freely from his eyes now.

I held him there, a few minutes more. I am a doctor, and dear Will was perfectly safe. We have safe signals for breath-play.

When I released him though, the sweet, startling gasps of air he took, the way the color flooded back into his face — ah. It was completely enrapturing, and satisfying.

I hope that this suffices as an answer, anonymous.

Sincerely,

Hannibal

 

**_Pretty When I Cry_ **

_As my hands loosed from your ivory throat, now pleasingly darkened from my grip, my orgasm arrived. Quick and sharp, deliciously painful as I came on you, my cum pale even against your creamy skin. Dark and light: the markings I left after playing you, dear boy._

_"Jesus, Hannibal," you grunted, voice hoarse, pulling me down against you. "Jesus."_

_The sound of your breathing, almost congested, eventually became less harried, and your heartbeat slowed._

_"I think I’m going to have a fucking headache," you said._

_I said nothing, only idly running my fingers across one of your nipples._

_"I seriously thought …" you said and then stopped._

_"Thought what, dear Will?"_

_"Nothing," you shook your head. I could see the tension in your jaw though. I waited._

_"I thought you might actually kill me that time."_

_I hummed, pleased with you for correctly understanding my frame of mind._

_"Why didn’t you use your safe signal if you were worried?" I said before kissing you over your sternum. The velvety skin there so warm, so promising and full of life. The bones beneath easy enough to split with the right tools, opening the hot cavity of your chest._

_"I … I guess I was curious what you would do," you admitted, running idle fingers through my hair._

_"If I would … kill you?" I asked, straddling your hips now. Your own cock was still half hard, and stiffened as my body shifted against yours._

_"Yeah," you laughed. "We’ve played this game before though."_

_"Have we?" I took your wrists, pinning them over your head._

_"Yeah," you said, husky and a little languid. I rolled our hips together, your cock hardening against me._

_"How would you kill me, Doctor?" you whispered._

_"With my hands, dear Will." The words felt closer to a prayer than anything I had said in decades._

_"What would you do with my body after?" your voice hitching while I pressed harder. "Would you eat me?"_

_"Your heart, dear Will," I said, pressing my face into your throat. The manner in which you groaned and arched against me left me momentarily breathless. Much less the manner in which you evaded my grasp, and I felt your nails drawing ragged lines down my back, your teeth against my throat. My pliant boy feral now. I was aptly reminded of[a piece of exquisite Phoenician art](http://arthistory.about.com/od/from_exhibitions/ig/treasures_from_assyria/aae_mfab_0809_01.htm): a boy, submissive and limp, gripped by his throat in the jaws of a lioness. Only I wondered, here, between us, who the boy was now, and the lioness. Your teeth scraped against my jugular, and though I had only just orgasmed, my own cock began to twitch again, but not altogether harden._

_"I would split your chest open and take your heart," I said._

_Your moan was simple, but delicious, sweet._

_"Would you fuck my body too, Doctor? Open and bloody and still warm like that?"_

_"Yes," I said finally. "Yes. I would."_

_"Oh fuck," you said, biting shoulder hard enough to break the skin and draw blood as you came against me. "Fuck," you said, slackening afterwards._

_"Yes," I said, easing back down with you, and stroking dark, sweaty curls from your ruddy face._

_In the night you sleep, quiet, and unafraid. I watch you, marveling at the paleness of your limbs. The darkness of the bruises at your throat. Our cum painting your belly. I marvel at the power you allow me to have over you and your body, dear boy. I marvel too, and the sensation of my hand around your throat. How if I had just pressed half a centimeter more, and held you there for a few minutes longer._

_But I didn’t._

_Rolling over, you smile at me, drowsily, wickedly, asking: “Dear Doctor, are you crying?”_

_Of course I’m not dearest. I silence you with a kiss and tuck you back into bed, where you sleep off your pleasure._

_But I cannot. Instead I salve, but not disinfect, the bite-marks in my shoulder, and the bloody red tracks down my back. And marvel at such perfect death._


	69. Randy Little Slut Boy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Have you ever turned up at Hannibal's naked except for a coat, just so you can walk in take it off and watch his facial expression?

> **Have you ever turned up at Hannibal's naked except for a coat, just so you can walk in take it off and watch his facial expression?**

 

 

Nope, anon. 

I  _have_ swanned into his house without underwear on, and seen how long it takes for him to sort it out. Usually it is not very long at all, and when he notices it usually ends in me being chided. By way of him putting me over his knee, pulling down my pants, and spanking me while I writhe and pant like the naughty little brat I can be. 

Pretty sure that showing up naked except for my coat would result in a similar punishment of some kind — probably for lewd and coarse behavior — and probably involving the [dragon’s tongue](http://www.toppingtools.co.uk/store/c5/Dragon_Tongues_and_Tails.html). 

Yes, my ass would be lashed until it was carnation red. Every time I sat for the next few days I would be reminded of being splayed on the bed, bound, while Hannibal asked me — between lashes — if I was such a randy little slut-boy that I couldn’t even  _wait_ for him. 

That would be just  _horrible_ , anon. 

Thanks for the suggestion. 

 

[OOC: Gentle reminder that requests are not filled in this blog. Will generally answers questions about his extensive sex life, though he has recently answered questions about his dogs and domestic life with Hannibal. Visit [Anatomy of a Good Ask](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/94444552938/ooc-anatomy-of-a-good-ask-friendly-tips) for tips about sending in asks to this blog.

\- mresundance, writer/handler]


	70. Taking a Break

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Have you and Hannibal ever had to “take a break” or had a mini break up?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Originally posted here.](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/104039490133/taking-a-break)

> **Have you and Hannibal ever had to “take a break” or had a mini break up?**

 

I can’t say that we have reader. [There was that time that Hannibal punished me by ignoring me for a week](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/98985517698/whats-the-worst-punishment-youve-ever-had). During that week I certainly wondered, however briefly, and elusively, if we  _were_  broken up, but I never acted as if we were anything but a couple during that time. Hannibal says he never considered us anything but a couple during that time either, despite the fact he “may have over-reacted”.

We’ve only been together for year but we’ve no plans to change that up anytime soon. We are also both notably bad at dealing with ambiguity. Hannibal is far too rigid and — well — controlling a person to handle the “are we together or not?” seesaw, and I am just too damn possessive to let go of someone lightly, even for a break.

If it came down to having to  _save_  our relationship, I think we would both agree to do whatever it took, even if meant a break of some kind. But in general, the mini-break is not something either of care to do. We are a little all or nothing that way. 


	71. Physics of Nuru Massage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Has Hannibal ever suggested or hinted that he would want to experience a nuru massage, where you will be the one giving it to him?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Originally posted here.](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/104046212553/has-hannibal-ever-suggested-or-hinted-that-he)

> **Has Hannibal ever suggested or hinted that he would want to experience a nuru massage, where you will be the one giving it to him?**

Hannibal Lecter, on his and knees with his ass in the air should be a sight to behold, on par with the Seven Wonders of the Ancient World. His lean, muscular body, slick and shining with oil, his ass cheeks faintly pink from being lightly slapped and grabbed -- more for the sensation than any real punishment. His face and chest rosy with arousal. His cock, thick, throbbing, precum oozing from the slit. His entrance warm and wet with lube, clenching around my fingers already. His need palpable as he pushes back against my fingers, or begs me to _please fuck him._ The way his hole puckers and he shivers with anticipation as I press the head of my cock to him, just lightly, before pushing my hard shaft all the way in.

Yes, dear anon. It should be a wonder to behold two oiled up attractive dudes who are hot for one another fucking each other's brains out after a long, sensuous nuru massage. But this is not at all how our (currently singular) nuru massage experience went.

Hannibal did ask me to give him a nuru massage once. Though my sexual proclivities and experience could be called "vast", I had never been on the giving end of a nuru massage. So I watched a lot of porn. And some helpful videos that I bought from Amazon. Or at least I thought they would be helpful. But when the evening of the massage arrived, I had not taken into account the reality of naked bodies, of physics, and friction (or lack thereof).

Exhibit A: I started the evening by giving Hannibal a massage on his bed. I laid a lot of towels out, thinking it would be enough to sponge up the excess oil before we got a little more frisky, so to speak. So I might have used more oil than necessary, thinking it would be okay, that this is what Hannibal wanted anyway: to have the both of us slick and gleaming as we writhed against one another.

The first indication of things to come was when I was squeezing out more massage oil. The tube of oil rocketed right out of my overly lubricated fingers and thudded into the wall. I picked the tube up, wiped it off, and proceeded, because sex is always full of interesting surprises, and the best thing you can do is just move on. But things did not go as planned. At all.

Exhibit B: I had Hannibal on his hands and knees, as described, and my slippery hands on his slippery thighs. I pressed the head of my cock to him and heard him grunt. I thought it was a sound of pleasure. Instead it was the sound of alarm he made before he began sliding off the bed. Because the towels were drenched in oil, and Hannibal couldn't get a grip on anything.

Thus I thrust -- sinking my dick into nothing but air -- before tumbling backwards into the bed while Hannibal fell head first off the bed.

Exhibit C: As noted, sex is full of surprises, so after we ascertained that nothing was broken, we tried again. This time on the floor with the towels spread under us. But attempting to grab onto Hannibal's slick haunches while fucking him hard was like wrestling with one of my dogs when they don't want a bath, but they're already soaking wet, and slippery with shampoo.

After awhile the slipping, my dick popping out when I slid backwards, and Hannibal getting his ass pommelled in the exact wrong way because when I tried to reinsert myself, _he_ would slip and then I would miss . . . it was clear it was time to call it quits and regroup.

We gathered up all the towels and tried not to slide too much as we took them down to Hannibal's washing machine. We then stumbled back up to his bedroom, and then his bathroom for a nice long bath. Which ended with my mouth around Hannibal's cock, and him purring my name as he came down my throat.

Not a complete loss, but suffice to say that in the future we will have to think about the physics of nuru massage a little more carefully.


	72. Past, Present

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Have you and Hannibal ever invited a woman into the bedroom?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Originally posted here.](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/104427223578/have-you-and-hannibal-ever-invited-a-woman-into)

[OOC: This functions like 2 mini fics in one. Usually the lists are not this detailed, but each story had more to it than the usual list format. A follow up post to this one — regarding a young woman Will is not kissing and telling about — follows in the next chapter.]

 

* * *

>  
> 
> **Have you and Hannibal ever invited a woman into the bedroom? A woman you both know or even just a woman the two of you picked up one night?**

 

Yes to all three questions anon. While our normal practice is picking up other men, we have had a few women in our bedroom with us.

Hannibal is no stranger to beauty and sensuality in all of its forms. He seems most keenly attracted to aspects of a person’s mind in particular, and personality. Gender and biology seem to be — not exactly secondary, because they are primary components of how we see ourselves, and how others see us, and how we shape our realities and understanding — but gender and biology are trumped by things like, say, having an interesting empathy disorder.

(He assures me that he finds me very sexually appealing, physically. I quip that he’s just using me for my fucked up mind anyways.)

As for myself, I could be persuaded to hump a table if the circumstances were right and the requisite amount of alcohol involved. Though my preference is decidedly for other men, I am not immune to women or other folk.

So it’s entirely likely women will join us on occasion. Here’s a sampling of a few encounters we’ve had:

1.

Last winter. Hannibal and I had gone out to a Christmas concert of some kind, hosted by a local university. We were walking outside and enjoying the icy, fresh air after being in a crowded, overly warm theatre, when a young woman approached us. It was hard to see anything except her face — like a plump little cherry bundled between a scarf and her coat and her hat — but she came on  _very_ strongly.

"I don’t want you to think I am creepy," she said, "but look, I saw you guys come in and I thought  _holy Jesus._ And I just …” she shrugged.

"You thought you’d proposition us?" Hannibal said in that mild way of his, though I could tell by the crinkles around his eyes that he was amused.

"Well yeah it sounds kinda skeevy when you say that though," she said. "I don’t even know if you’re into women at all. So. Uh. Sorry to bother you."

We looked at each other as she began to walk away, and we both knew, really. We liked her audacity. Why not?

So we caught up with her and she came home with us that night, to Hannibal’s house. I remember her name but I won’t reveal it out of a vague sense of discretion. But she was twenty-two and though she had had some sexual experiences, being with two men at once was something she hadn’t tried but wanted to.  _Really really wanted to_ , she insisted, repeatedly, while Hannibal fed her some mulled wine to help her warm up.

I don’t think the wine warmed her as much as my mouth on her throat though, or my mouth at her collarbone, between her breasts, on her nipples, down her belly, between her thighs. Nor did it warm her as much as my tongue inside her, my thumb rubbing her clit while she panted and whimpered.  She murmured with pleasure as I sank into her, first with my fingers and then my cock, gasping periodically as she arched into our languid thrusts, my fingers yet on her clit.

I can’t say for sure, but I think she enjoyed Hannibal watching.  _I_ certainly liked that part. He sat in a chair, jacket, tie and shoes off, top buttons undone, but his vest still on, fingers steepled. Occasionally he licked his lips, or I heard his breathing speed up. Sometimes he asked me how it felt, or he asked the girl if it was good. I could see his erection through his pants, and he sometimes squeezed himself, but he otherwise didn’t touch himself and remained composed. Which somehow made it all the more erotic.

She came, digging her nails into my shoulders and breathing hard, face redder than it had been out in the cold, and then lay back in bed and seemed to nod off for a moment. Hannibal shifted, as if to move, and she said: “No,” and crooked her finger at him. “Fuck me,” she said.

When joined us in the bed, still clothed, she clambered into his lap, flush, sticky, feeling his cock through his trousers before unzipping him and taking his shaft in her hand.

"Kiss him," she told me, because I was seated behind her now, and so we did, our faces meeting inches from hers.

He fucked her with most of his clothes still on, her fingers in my hair as I cupped her breasts and sucked on her neck. I am glad to say she came a second time this way: between us, the three of us moaning and entwined.

2.

This second experience will probably come as no surprise to any readers. Alana came over to Hannibal’s house one night for dinner. [Alana and I used to date](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/94390576843/alana-bloom-or-margot-verger), briefly, but it’s been long enough that there’s no animosity between us, and she seemed quite congratulatory on the fact that Hannibal and I had gotten together. Hannibal was her mentor in graduate school, and a colleague, and a friend, so I suppose she’d reason to congratulate us.

At any rate, Alana seemed rather down that night; apparently a friend of hers had been in a bad car accident. So Hannibal and I tried to make it enjoyable, since she insisted on not leaving. We all ended up, shoeless, with glasses of wine, in Hannibal’s vast living room, where he keeps his harpsichord. Alana and I were playing chopsticks on it and laughing, and Hannibal watched us.

Oh, and I hadn’t yet told Hannibal that Alana and I used to date. It hadn’t come up. I’d planned to tell him that night before dinner, but work kept me late, and I arrived after Alana.

But Alana was looking at me like she used to a little — with that glint of warmth in her eyes — and was leaning into me, just a little. And of course Hannibal noticed.

"It’s cozy in here," he said, in what was possibly one of the most awkward moments I’ve ever seen him in.

"We used to date," Alana and I blurted out at the same time. Hannibal actually seemed amused.

"It’s not hard to tell," he said.

"People used to think we were having an affair in med school. Hannibal and I," Alana offered after a pause. The silence wasn’t uneasy so much as taut with all kinds of unspoken questions between us.

Finally Alana just shrugged in that way of hers that says:  _I’ve made a decision._

"We’re all adults here," she said. Her hand was warm and solid on my shoulder as she looked up at Hannibal.

"We are you suggesting, Alana?" I asked, acerbic. I won’t lie. Alana is wildly attractive to me, and the desire to sleep with her had never quiet extinguished itself even after I broke up with her. And I didn’t want to seem overly desperate, especially around Hannibal. So I decided to be a snarky bastard about things.  

She kissed me then, probably to shut me up. I made a noise of surprise, but it didn’t take me long to remember the thin curve of her lips against mine, the way she used to like it when I gave in and opened my mouth as she wound her fingers through my hair.

It didn’t happen as impulsively as one might imagine. Hannibal watched us kiss for a moment — intrigued, I think — before clearing his throat and saying we should probably discuss some things. He wasn’t offended. I’m sure he was jealous, briefly, but he wouldn’t have shown it. Not in front of Alana, at least.

It was a one time experience. We are all clear on that point. More than once probably would have become too awkward anyways.  

And it’s not the _only_ time I’ve ever slept with an ex but this was … different. Knowing her body so intimately beforehand. How she liked to be touched, what she wanted. And she knowing my body, and remembering how I liked to be touched. There was something strange and arousing in that familiarity, but also in the fact that enough time had passed we were now just friends, and in some ways, strangers.

And while I have no regrets, and neither does Hannibal, I actually enjoyed the whole thing best once Alana left.

Once we finished (well, she did, a few times) she showered and dressed, and we walked her to the door, Hannibal in a bathrobe, and me in one of his shirts and my pants. Our goodbyes were all, stiff, formal — distant. He shut the door after her, and I remember sighing, loud and long, and feeling relieved.  

She was the past, you see, and once the door was shut and she was gone, there was just Hannibal and I. The present. With the potential to be the future.

We went and had a shower, rubbing against one another slowly, kissing, touching. The water was actually cold by the time we both came, foreheads pressed together, cradling each other.


	73. The One Who Got Away

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "It had always been this way between us -- this bottomless, cavernous desire."
> 
> The one woman Will is not telling his readers about, and probably for a myriad of good reasons.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Originally posted here.](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/104429119033/3-the-one-who-got-away)

[OOC: Follow up to the previous chapter/post. What Will is not talking about publicly, of course. I separated them because this is a somewhat distinct moment/plot thread/whathaveyou on its own.]

 

**3\. The One Who Got Away**

_"Abigail," I said, voice warm and resonant in my small kitchen._

_She turned and smiled, the chef's knife in her hand flashing in the afternoon light._

_"You scared me," I said, shutting the back door behind me. "I thought you were an intruder when I saw your shadow moving in the kitchen, from outside."_

_"Oh," she said, mildly, something she has picked up from Hannibal. She goes back to slicing mushrooms for a salad. "No, just me."_

_"What are you doing here?" I asked, carefully sidling around her to deposit my briefcase in its usual niche._

_"Thanksgiving? Duh?" she said, now halving some cherry tomatoes._

_"But we are going to Hannibal's house? On Thanksgiving?" I said, coming up behind her, resisting the urge to wrap my arms around her._

_"I had no classes and a friend gave me a ride," she said, turning around, knife still in hand._

_"All the way out here?" I asked, still circumspect. I had no idea how she felt, now. She'd been away at college, of course, working, paying her rent, living her own life, as it should be. But anything between us was entirely up to her.  Though, unexpectedly showing up at my house was -- could be -- an optimistic sign._

_She smiled in that shy way of hers -- as if afraid -- always afraid, and came towards me with the knife, trembling as she ran the blade along my belly. The air in the kitchen seemed suddenly very humid, heavy._

_"Is that in a knife, or are you just happy to see me?" I teased, but there was a low purr in my voice._

_She slid the knife up my chest, the tip of the blade licking my throat._

_"Happy to see you," she murmured, putting the knife down and seizing handfuls of my shirt, pulling me down for a kiss, her mouth open, her teeth scraping my lips._

_The bowl of salad and the cutting board shoved aside as I lifted her onto the counter, pressing my groin to hers, erection already thickening as her jeans began to exude arousal: her heat and wetness. Her hands, small and clever, undoing my belt buckle, unzipping my trousers, sliding beneath my boxer briefs and stroking me, quick, urgent._

_"Condom," I stammered as she wriggled and rolled her hips, pulling off the leggings beneath her skirt just enough that I could feel her wet cunt against the inside of my thigh. She whined and bit my lip, hard enough to draw blood, and then -- because I couldn't trust myself not to start fucking her, then and there, without any protection -- I lifted her off the counter and carried her to the bedroom and dumped her in my bed. It was enough that I could untangle myself from her and fetch a condom from the nightstand._

_"Are you ready enough?" I asked, rolling the condom on, and shaking with need as I pulled her to the edge of the bed by her thighs._

_It had always been this way between us -- this bottomless, cavernous desire -- and I couldn't understand or explain why, and I didn't want or need to because she said: "I'm ready, I want you," and I sank into her, one quick, hard thrust that made her gasp._

_"Fuck, Abigail, fuck," I said, barely pulling out as I thrust into her again and again. Her heat, her wetness, the smell and taste and feel of her. Here, now._

_She made a little noise in the back of her throat, nails digging in my scalp, my shoulders, her heels pressing into my ass, the sound of our bodies meeting loud, erotic. It too a shamefully short amount of time for both of us to come, her cunt squeezing around me. I felt dizzy and windless for a long while after.  And then I lay inside her as we exchanged sloppy, lazy kisses._

_"Someday I want to without a condom," she said after carefully slid out of her, making sure to hold the base of the condom against myself. "I'm on birth control," she added._

_I left her long enough to go flush the condom down the toilet before saying:_

_"Even so -- no you don't. Not with me."_

_I almost didn't get the words out though, because she'd pulled the covers of the bed back to lie down, and taken the rest of her clothes off. She spread out naked in front of me, and I could smell her wetness and arousal, our sex, acrid and sweet, in the air._

_I took the rest of my clothes off too, sliding into bed, pulling her into my arms._

_"Maybe we could once you're old and too tired to be such a slut," she said, kissing the tip of my nose._

_"I resemble that remark."_

_"You get tested regularly."_

_"Of course I do."_

_"You and Hannibal don't --"_

_"Are me and Hannibal. You and I are different."_

_What I didn't say:_ I don't have to protect Hannibal.

_I held her for awhile, pressing my face into her throat. I asked her about school and work, and her life in Baltimore over the past few months. And finally asked her the question I was most afraid of, for reasons that I knew, logically, were ridiculous. But I learned long ago that fears are seldom rational creatures._

_"Are you seeing anyone? At school? Or work?"_

_"I was," she said, carding fingers through my hair. I should have been sadder about her use of the past tense. "For a few months. A big dumb jock. It was fun. But," she kissed me, tongue flicking against my lips._

_She didn't say what after. She just rolled me onto my back and grazed her wet cunt against my limp cock until I began to stiffen again, and then -- after rolling a condom on -- rode me slowly until she came._

 

[OOC: I have suspected for a couple months that Will and Abigail in this universe were doing the do, but I needed time to think about how that came about, and why the relationship works, and what the power dynamics were. There will be more posts on this, just FYI.]


	74. Rod, Reel, Wrist (Non-Sexual Kinks)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What's your favorite non-sexual kink?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Originally posted here.](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/104680181928/whats-your-favorite-non-sexual-kink)

> **What's your favorite non-sexual kink?**

 

I’ll be honest thrustingbutts (great username, by the way), I sat and squinted at this ask for a few moments wondering what the hell a non-sexual kink would be. You all know my proclivities at this point and I will freely admit I have no understanding of an asexual viewpoint on these things. Or even demisexual, as Hannibal seems to be in some respects.

I was scowling rather furiously at this ask and did some Googling, to little avail. Finally, Abigail — who I’ve mentioned a few times previously, and who came to visit me over the weekend, so we could spend time commiserating together; she about her finals, me about grading finals — asked me what I was looking sour about. I told her and she laughed and then explained that non-sexual kinks were something that gave people both pleasure and excitement, like sex might, but without the sexual feelings.

In which case, I guess I have a lot of non-sexual kinks, and Hannibal most certainly does.

Hannibal’s predominant non-sexual kinks (though, I would have to say they both cross over to sexual at times) have to be his cooking and his wardrobe. The only time I really see him as relaxed and blissed out as when he is cooking is when I’ve just sucked him off. He’ll object to my crassness with that description, but it’s true. He positively  _glows_ when he cooks. Sometimes he hums little arias to himself. When he moves through the kitchen, I am stricken by his grace. There are professional dancers who probably don’t move as beautifully as he does in the kitchen.

As for his wardrobe: I occasionally tease him for how outlandish his personal style can be, how he should just try dressing like a normal person (to which he replies, rather tartly, if I mean he should dress like a hunter who got lost in the woods and hasn’t properly washed or groomed for months, rather like  _someone_ he knows). But there is no disputing that Hannibal looks good in what he wears and he knows it. There is something so potent about watching him enter a room for the first time and feeling the energy of the room  _bend_ around him. Like a black hole bends light which ventures too near it. And while he would be this potent in different clothes (at least I think so), there is no disputing that his clothing makes a difference. There is no one more rigorous or involved in his wardrobe more than Hannibal Lecter. He could probably quibble with fashion designers. If that’s not a kink — if his face doesn’t take on a distinct expression of satisfaction when he ties his tie, or turns to make sure his pants make his ass look good — I really don’t know what is.

As for myself, my non-sexual kinks probably include: cooking for other people, fishing, and spending time outside.

I am not the cook Hannibal is, nor would I want to be. I make, in Hannibal’s words “pleasant” meals. Which from Hannibal is a compliment. But the first time I made him food and he said it was “good” in that reserved tone of his, I wanted to chuck the wooden spoon I had in my hand at him. I might have hissed something in Cajun at him though.

You see, I made him my Grandmother’s jambalaya. Saying it was merely “good” is an insult. I wouldn’t care if some Michelin Star chef waltzed in to my kitchen and said it was trash, much less Hannibal. After my mother left, my Grandmother and my extended family (cousins, uncles, aunts) half raised me because my Dad did have to work to put food on the table and keep a roof over our heads. He did his best, but he couldn’t have done it on his own. So my Grandmother taught me Cajun and how to cook. When she died I got her favorite cookbook. I have it still, with all her handwritten notes, and recipes she made up and wedged into the book. I’ve memorized a fair few of her recipes, and when Hannibal or Abigail visits, I make them something my Grandmother would have made me. Because I know it will fill them up; it’s food with all the love I can manage to give in it. And there’s few things that make me happier than seeing the little crinkles in Hannibal’s eyes when he’s eating something he is truly enjoying. Or seeing Abigail smile because the food is, in her estimation, suitably spicy.

Fishing is perhaps obvious if you know me, and know the amount of money I spend on my tackle and fishing gear, and how I have memorized the book  _A River Runs Through It_ nearly line for line, and how every year when trout season comes I request time off. Fishing is perhaps, the closest thing I have to a religious belief system. And there are few things in this life more satisfying to me than the hot glint of sun off cool, rushing water; the low murmur and hum of the river sliding around me, like the murmur of time, of centuries, come and gone; it makes me aware that, in the scheme of things, I am nothing, and no-one, and with each breath I exhale I can let go of things that don’t really matter, giving them up to that great swell of time, until there is only: the slow, steady rhythm of the rod and the reel and the wrist; the glistening filament of a line being cast; the sharp tug of a small life ended, abruptly, at the end of a sharp hook and a mouthful of beautiful lure. There is nothing like fresh trout in the pan after a long day of fishing, of butter and herbs and chives, and tasting the firm, sweet warmth of that fish and feeling like everything is as it should be.

Being outside is similar. Sometimes when I can’t sleep I find myself walking through the woods at night, my pathway illuminated only by memory, or the faint light of stars, and sometimes the white, scything light of the moon. In any case, I mostly traipse through the woods and listen. I listen for the low, deep calls of horned owls, the soft sashay of deer, of creatures scuttling through the dark underbrush. I listen for the wind through the trees, sighing like a great sea wave coming into shore. And I listen for the long, exhilarating gaps of silence, spaces of blackness that empty me, make me feel quiet and calm enough to go back home and sleep.

I also spend a good part of my weekends in the spring and summer hiking through the woods near my house, or driving to the Appalachians to hike. Hannibal has joined me sometimes — if you can imagine it — but Abigail is actually the one who joins me the most, out of doors. Her father used to take her hunting, and so she is no stranger to hiking and enjoying the out of the doors.

Someday I would like to take her to the Rocky Mountains, because  _there_ is some hiking. You can climb any of the mountains in the Appalachians before lunch if you get up early enough, but it took me two days to climb to the summit of Pikes Peak, more than fourteen thousand feet, a good chunk of it nearly vertical. And though I was aching, exhausted, and a little dizzy because the air was thin and parched that far up, I’ve never seen anything like that summit. A panorama of bone white mountain-caps spread all around; hazy blue and green valleys; lakes and pools reflecting the thin blue sky, which, from that height, seemed to be very small somehow. I sat on a ledge, my skin burning from cold, from the wind, and sunburn, listening to the wind howl through the sudden drop dangling below my feet, my heart halfway up my throat.

Are these kinks? I don’t know. Maybe, maybe not. But they still give me and others a rush of pleasure, of contentment, like few other things in life. 


	75. MP: On the New Neighbors

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hannibal has some new neighbors. Will is very keen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Originally posted here.](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/105132722473/on-the-new-neighbors)

Hannibal seems to have acquired new neighbors in the last month or so, [mindpalace2k15](http://tmblr.co/mPL_3rmsxR-GxVS3anu61wg). 

(“Acquired,” he sniffs. “It’s more accurate to say I was  _imposed_ upon,” as if he is the only person in the entire neighborhood.) _  
_

Suffice to say, the neighbors are an interesting lot. One of them likes to saunter around without his clothes on. (Rather scruffy, even by my standards, with browned skin and long hair and braids … . but there is definitely something about him which piques my interest. Maybe his pert, muscular ass, his broad, sturdy shoulders. Or his cock — an easy mouthful while still soft, much less while hard.)

Another one seems rather childish and innocent — annoyingly, endearingly so — and yet another looks a lot like me, if, according to Abigail: “I let myself go a little more”. She means he is scruffy and a bit plumper. He follows the naked one around a lot, while wearing things that look like very short skirts or dresses and showing a fantastic amount of milky white thigh that leaves little to the imagination. 

And there are a a few who seem, weirdly enough, to be a lot like Hannibal and I. The guy who looks like me — well — he looks a little sadder I have to say, and his Hannibal a little more … pins and needles. I’ve said to my Hannibal: “Like he is on pins and needles more.”

My Hannibal just purses his lips and rolls his eyes at any mention of the neighbors, because he founds them “loud and uncouth” and “carrying on at all hours of day in a dreadful way”. I still insist that we should probably get to know them more  _intimately_.

Hannibal tells me this is because I am thinking not with my formidable mind, once again. I tell him he likes it when I think with my dick, especially when it’s in him. He doesn’t exactly disagree. 

At any rate, I hope I can use my considerable talents and persuade him to make a social visit at some point. He wouldn’t want to be seen as rude, even by a pack of uncouth, loud, fornicating ruffians. (And it’s not like he’s  _dating_ one either.)


	76. MP: Peeping Will

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will is spying on Hannibal's new neighbors.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Originally posted here.](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/105133127938/the-winnowing-wind-mindpalace2k15-hrm-better)

"Will," Hannibal calls to me and I only vaguely respond.

"Will, what are you doing?" Hannibal scowls. "You’re  _spying_ on the neighbors again.”

It’s a statement of fact, and the way he says it sounds like I’ve forced him to lick the over cooked, burnt gristle out of a pot. 

I make a noncommital noises while Hannibal bends down, swooping into my personal space, wrapped in a bathrobe and still damp from his evening shower, his hair combed back, the minty tang of whatever lotion he used thankfully stronger than the smell of his overly expensive (but completely  _dour)_ toothpaste. 

"Mmmm, that  _beast_ again,” he  _tsks._ "Taking his clothes off when half the neighborhood can see," he sniffs.

"What," I shoulder him out of the way just in time to see a brown, tanned flash of belly, but no more, because the scruffy man in the neighboring house stops while his pink t-shirt is halfway up his stomach.

"Oh," and I am aware of how ridiculously dismayed I sound, and how ridiculous I am, goggling the neighbors through windows. Like the pervert I am. 

"Will come to bed," Hannibal says tiredly, pinching the bridge of his nose. 

"You know we really ought to —"

Hannibal sighs heavily. 

"You don’t want to be  _rude_ —” I murmur, wrapping my arms around him, just the way he likes: firm but slack enough to allow him space to maneuver. 

"It’s always polite to call on new neighbors," I hum, brushing his hair back from his neck and kissing him there. "You said so yourself," more kisses into his skin, rubbing circles into his stomach, reaching beneath his bathrobe. 

I can  _feel_ his eyeroll. 

"It seems a might cruel to use my own words against me in such a fashion, Will," he manages as I pull his bathrobe back, over one shoulder. 

"Mmmm, serves you right," I say, dragging my teeth over his shoulder and reaching between his thighs. 

It’s not long — my hand warm and firm around him, rolling his thick red head with my thumb as he comes — and he needs to take another shower. He only minds a little now, because I join him, shampooing his hair and touching him all over, listening to the low vibrations of pleasure still reverberating through his body. 

"Perhaps," he says as we climb into bed, "a social visit will not go  … amiss."

"That’s the spirit," I say, nuzzling him. 

He sighs as if to say  _why do I let you manipulate me so._

"You love me," I mumble into his chest. 

He purses his lips and says nothing, but we both know the truth. 


	77. Speaking in Tongues (Rimming)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Have you ever rimmed Hannibal?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Originally posted here.](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/104680730303/have-you-ever-rimmed-hannibal)

 

> **Have you ever rimmed Hannibal?**

 

[OOC: Ah yes. Top is Will’s official answer. Bottom portion, in italics is stuff Will left out.

Warnings: rimming (if that is not your thing?), and then in the bottom portion, metions of violent acts, auto-cannibalism, Will getting boners over dubious violent stuff, as he is want to do.]

 

Oh _anon._

Have I ever spread my thighs like a wanton, greedy little boy, begging for Hannibal to stretch me open with his tongue and fingers?

Yes and _yes of course_ to your question.

Most recently it was when he came to visit me last weekend, late Saturday night, after returning from a social event of some kind that I had not felt up to attending. I knew he'd be coming so I left the back door open and heard only the lightest sound -- like the footfalls of a shadow -- as he breached the threshold and entered. I was in bed, reading, when he came in. He shed his clothes and climbed into bed with nothing but his boxers on and then just lied down next to me, face down.

"Long night?"

He responded with a low huff of breath as if to say _yes, yes, of course, excruciating._

"My poor Hannibal," I said, teasing. He ignored it, and pretended to ignore it as I kissed the back of his neck, then between his shoulder blades and down his spine. I nuzzled the dimples in the small of his back, listening to how his breathing had become very shallow. I licked and nipped at his lower back a bit, before pressing my face into his ass. The fabric of his boxer briefs grew warm and damp from my breath, and I licked between his cheeks, just to see what he would do. He actually squirmed a little, and I nipped him. He grunted, but it wasn't an unhappy noise.

I licked and sucked him through the fabric of his boxers for a few minutes longer, before slowly reaching up and drawing his boxer briefs down and off.

"Poor, poor Hannibal Lecter," I murmured, nuzzling and kissing between his cheeks, brushing my thumb against his entrance. He tensed, but made a low, rumbling noise in the back of his throat which I've heard many times before. It basically means: _proceed._  

So I gently spread his cheeks and pressed my lips to him, just mouthing him for a moment. He shivered as I brushed my tongue over his entrance. I languished there, lapping at him, savoring the almost metallic taste of him. Finally, I pushed his cheeks open a little wider, exposing him all the more, and then slid my tongue into him, his tight, puckered heat. He gasped at that. He panted too, as I began pushing my tongue in and out of him, a measured pace, swirling around his entrance before pushing back into him, opening him with broad swipes of my tongue.

"Will," he said, clenching the sheets of my bed.

"Hmmm?" I hummed, my tongue still buried in him, and he made a little noise and arched into my mouth.

He wanted me to fuck him. He begged me to fuck him, in point of fact. He begged me to even use my fingers. But I simply _tsked_ at him and kept rimming him -- sometimes sucking his wet, pink hole with my lips, sometimes giving him deep, broad strokes of my tongue, sometimes giving him urgent, little stabs -- all the while listening to his breathing become increasingly ragged, his pleading give way to little moans, and feeling his body clench around me with need.

It took awhile; my mouth and tongue were both a little numb, but, it didn't matter. When Hannibal came, he gave a soft, pitiful sound in the back of his throat. His whole body tightened, squeezing around me. I smelled his release, burning and acrid. I kept my tongue buried inside him a moment longer, then gave him a few last, lingering licks which made him shudder, before withdrawing.

"Better?" I said, nuzzling into his chest.

His laugh was no more than a huff of air -- amused, pleasured.His way of saying: _yes._

* * *

_"Who'd you kill this time?" I murmured into his chest. I could still smell it there: blood. Not that there was any blood on him, but I could smell the residue of it lingering around him, like cologne. And sense the heat and arousal of his last kill in the tension and exhaustion of his body._

_"Just a very rude benefactor -- former benefactor -- of the Baltimore Symphony Orchestra."_

_"Mmmm." I nuzzled against him, warm and sleepy._

_"He said something rude about you once, in point of fact. At a different function. He wasn't at the one tonight. The function tonight was just my alibi," Hannibal said, one arm around me, pulling me to him. It almost crushed the air out of me._

_"But he said it was a waste that I was with a cop. He implied that you weren't intelligent enough for me."_

_"Uh-oh spaghetti-o," I said drowsily, running my teeth over his collarbone. Allowing myself to imagine the scene from this other, past function. Hannibal, stunning in a tuxedo. The other man, maybe somewhat appealing, but obviously less stunning. Thin. Beady eyed perhaps, with a measly, ill groomed mustache of some kind. Very cliché, but pleasing._

_"How did you deal with him then?" I said, leaning into him, brushing my hardening cock against him._

_He chuckled._

_"I cut out his insolent tongue," he said, kissing me lightly on the lips. "And made him eat it. Or choke on it, rather."_

_I moaned then, and he took me in his hand -- his calloused, beautiful hand -- and, whispering about the noises the man had made as he choked to death, stroked me and until I came, clutching his shoulders and whimpering into the crook of his neck how I loved him, don't stop, don't stop._

_After, I told him: "I would like to see you work, one day."_

_His lips stretched with a kind of surprise. "Wouldn't that be . . . incriminating, dear Will?"_

_"Everything with you is incriminating," I said, playfully, but also truthfully. "Besides, we've already killed together. It won't make much difference now, will it?"_

_He smiled then, a genuine smile, which filled him with a pleasing softness._

_"I think I would like that too," he said after awhile._


	78. A Truth Universally Acknowledged

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So we know how clean and tidy Hannibal keeps everything, but does it give you any pleasure pushing books off his desk while he takes you or watching him clear the desk so he can take you?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Originally posted here.](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/105144291653/so-we-know-how-clean-and-tidy-hannibal-keeps)

> **So we know how clean and tidy Hannibal keeps everything, but does it give you any pleasure pushing books off his desk while he takes you or watching him clear the desk so he can take you?**

 

Ah yes. It is a truth universally acknowledged that a fine desk, comprised of solid wood, sturdy workmanship, and a glossy (but not gaudy) finish, must be in want of being fucked upon.*

And considering Hannibal’s desk:

… can you blame me dear readers, when presented with the potential and possibilities of being defiled upon such a handsome desk?

I will honestly admit that the first few sessions with Hannibal, when I was yet his patient and he my therapist, I might have spent a  _bit_  of time contemplating the uses of that desk beyond administrative tasks. I might even have contemplated myself upon that desk, while a certain, powerful, handsome doctor spread my legs and unzipped his very fine trousers. 

Since then, I haven’t had to imagine it. 

Though, anon, you are right about Hannibal’s fastidiousness, I could  _never_  in a million years get away with knocking things off his desk. I tried it once. It first ended in being caned. When I did it again (in a bout of bratishness in which I admittedly was testing Hannibal’s limits) he gave me an enema for punishment. The experience was humiliating enough I wouldn’t knock anything off Hannibal’s desk again.

Neither does he knock things off in the heat of passion. It’s not that he is not passionate. It’s more just that if he’s in that kind of mood, he will throw me on the floor and be inside me before I’ve had a chance to catch my breath. Fucking me hard into the carpet, sometimes clamping his hand around my mouth to stifle my whimpers, and telling me what awhat a  _wanton, greedy little slut-boy_ I am.  _  
_

By far the best usage of his desk was the weekend he had some extra work to do to finish a conference paper. We had originally agreed to spend that weekend together, and Hannibal hates breaking his promises. He was reluctant to tell me he had work to do. I told him I would come and visit him, and I would provide him with some much needed  _relief_  when he wasn’t working.

That relief ended up me being stripped naked and half bent over his desk whenever he called for me. Otherwise, I was in what he calls his upper gallery, a second story balcony in his office, lined with bookshelves and accessible by ladder. I spent most of my time up there thumbing through books and waiting for him.

He’d call up to me saying: “Will”, or “boy” and I would have to clamber down his ladder quickly, quickly, divesting myself of my clothes and then bending over the desk, parting my thighs and surrendering myself utterly to him. 

The first few times he simply fucked me, rough, and hard enough to make the drawers shudder, my face pressed into that wood, fingers scrabbling over the fine surface. Another time he had me sit on the desk, and took my cock in his mouth. Yet another he spread me open with his tongue and fingers, in that position. 

All and all, a mutually satisfying agreement. Hannibal finished his work, and we spent the rest of the day (well, evening) together at his house. Kissing, touching lazily ( _cuddling_ you could even say) while curled up together and watching a movie. Yes, a movie. Hannibal was so pleased that he watched the entirety of  _Blazing Saddles_ with me. He even tried not to scowl too much, or make any snide comments (“this sort of humor is aneurysm-inducing and far beneath you”). And he actually  _laughed_ at the Hedy/Hedley Lamarr joke. 

 

* Don’t act surprised by the reference. I have read  _a lot_ of books, including, yes, Jane Austen. I even read of my volition. It’s not like I joined some Jane Austen book club once, in an attempt to attract a woman who was in said book club.

~~Did I mention she was a dog breeder too?)~~


	79. MP: Snowball Fight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A snowball fight ensues at the neighbor's house.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Originally posted here.](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/105244596788/knights-vs-murder-husbands-after-the-snowball)

“ _Animals,”_ Hannibal hisses. Sometimes I forget if I have a giant cat for a partner or not, because the way he pulls his lips back gives the impression that he should be flattening a pair of ears against his feline skull. 

Not one to be tempted by pleasures beneath him (such as eyeballing the neighbors through the kitchen window while they snowball fight), Hannibal scowls and continues working on dinner while Abigail and I, his extremely faithful and trustworthy helpers, continue shirking our duties so we can goggle the neighbors through the window.

"The scruffy one and chubby Will are like  _nearly humping each other in the driveway oh my god,_ " Abigail says, distracted from potato peeling enough to nearly slice herself open. 

I grunt because there’s not much I can add to the description, and I’m focusing on how the two men’s lips seem to be meeting. Is that —  _tongue_?

A lull in the action as a car pulls in to block our view and the doppelgängers — as Hannibal and I call them, because they look so like us — hop out. Swaying almost languidly in step.

Abigail and I sadly return to our duties (well, maybe not so sadly, because she has cut herself, now, so I take her finger into my mouth. The blood is warm and acrid, like pennies left in the dryer, and she blushes just a little). But then her eyes graze over me and she says, “Holy shit.”

The neighbor’s front yard is a flurry of snowballs now, and I find myself laughing.

Hannibal pauses long enough from his foul bristling to ask: “What are they doing now?”

"Snowball fight," Abigail and I answer. 

Hannibal says nothing about that.

"Maybe we could …?" Abigail says. 

But soon enough the snowball fight is over, an even draw between the scruffy ones and our doppelgängers, and Hannibal is asking about the potatoes and the leeks, and well. Best not displease the chef, especially when he’s currently wielding that sullen glare.

"You are not too proper for snowball fights, are you?" I teased, kissing him softly on the lips until I feel him relax a bit. 

"It seems a little …juvenile," he shrugs. 

"Not if I get you all wet and soaked from the snow, and then I peel your clothes off very slowly once we get inside," I whisper.

He thrums with pleasure at the idea, even if just for a moment. 


	80. Bacon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will muses on bacon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Originally posted here.](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/105280616163/bacon-is-like-sex-even-when-its-terrible-its)

Bacon is like sex. Even when it’s terrible it’s still pretty good.

  
 **Tags:** #it's still bacon #you know #i am possessed of great wisdom #also #hannibal made me bacon #to try and convince me to get out of bed and stop sucking his dick #he apparently needed to get to work at some point #fancy that #i am not avoiding the mound of final papers i should be grading #blah blah blah sociopathology blah blah blah papers #at least they are mostly well written #and it's hard to fault students for not getting certain things right #they don't know any better #and they are the best of the best #being in the fbi training course and all #but still #there is a special agony and well #fondness #which comes with evaluating the work of people who are clearly still nascent in the field #like oh bless you for attempting to apply this concept and pretty much not succeeding #but you tried #please stop though


	81. The Light of a Million Years

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Do you enjoy growing your natural body hair? Do you ever remove it? if so, how? and does Hannibal ever help you?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Originally posted here.](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/105708371743/the-light-of-a-million-years)

[OOC: This was originally sent as an ask.

As always, the portions at the beginning and the end, in italics, are . . . the more complete version of events. The middle portion is Will's "official", public answer.

Warnings for tense changes. The truth bits are in present tense, the not so truthy bits in past tense. Just FYI.]

* * *

 

 

> **Ask: Do you enjoy growing your natural body hair? Do you ever remove it? if so, how? and does Hannibal ever help you?**

 

_"Will you help me with this, then? Hello?"_

_She purses her lips, trying not to laugh._

_"You want me to . . . actually help you wax your ass?"_

_"Yes," I say, pretending to be annoyed and failing. "It's for science," I say._

_"Uh huh. You sure it's not some kinky thing for Hannibal."_

_"Why not both? And why not for you?"_

_She finally smiles at that -- a real smile -- bright and full as a sunrise in the middle of winter. Every time she smiles like that I feel something in me shudder. As if part of me is dying. Or being reborn. I don't know._

_"I'm just doing No Shave November for extra credit. I don't get more extra credit for waxing off your body hair."_

_"Not even a little?" I pout, kneeling in front of her, pressing my face into her belly._

_"No, and it's not like it will make much of a difference with you."_

_"Ouch, Abigail."_

_"I've seen you naked," she says matter of factly in the way only someone who is still a teenager can._

_"Think of it as a gesture of . . . solidarity," I say finally._

_"Why? It's not like you're my boyfriend or anything."_

_I stay still, hoping she can't feel how I flinched when she said that._

_"Besides, you hate that I wax," she says, pitching her voice and wrinkling her face. " 'You kids these days with all your body hair removed'," she says, pretending to be me._

_"I do_ not _sound like that --"_

_"In my day, people weren't afraid of a little body hair --"_

_I'm laughing again, my arms around her._

_"Was your day in the stone age or something?" she says, running her fingers through my hair._

_"It was_ not _," I say._

_Finally she sighs and says, "Fine, I'll help you -- wax your ass."_

_And it's strange. Strange and erotic, because I have to clamber into her lap while she sits on the toilet. I've no pants or underwear on. Like I'm a little boy and she has slung me over her knees to deliver a spanking._

_I wiggle my eyebrows at her and tell her as much._

_"Oh, really?" she cocks her head, applying the warm wax. "You want a spanking?" There is a tremor of -- fear, nervousness. She's still getting used to this idea. Of ordering me around. Of being Dominant to my submissive. We haven't found out if it truly suits her._

_"Only if I've been a bad boy," I say, voice husky as she rubs the strip over the wax._

_"Well, you haven't been. Lately. Not with me," she says, softly, and meets my eyes briefly before looking away. Blushing. Still sometimes shy about expressing her sexual desires, at directness. Sometimes even flirtation makes her go completely silent for hours, pressing her hands together. Anxious. Afraid._

_"I won't hurt you," I tell her, over and over. "Not on purpose. I promise."_

_But the way she looks at me when I tell her is a deadpan mixture of:_ I know, stupid _and_ but you can't undo nearly twenty years of the people you love and trust the most hurting you over and over.

_She's always waiting for the other shoe to drop. Half tense, half ready to run when the day finally comes and I finally hurt her like her father did. Or her mother._

_When I reassured her in the past, I believed myself. But that was before Clark Ingram. Before I asked to join Hannibal on a hunt._

_Now. I don't know and my own reassurances feel chalky in my mouth when I tell her I won't hurt her._

_So I don't say anything and fortunately she tears the first strip out of my ass so I can focus on that, on that red line of pain._

_"You okay?" she asks._

_"Fine," I say._

_She keeps working, applying more wax and strips. After awhile there's a kind of rhythm to it, and I let my body relax into the pain, the comforting warmth. How steady and strong her hands are as she works, and how careful she is about the places that have been waxed._

_She pulls the last strip and there's a pause, my breathing heavy, echoing in the bathroom._

_"You're --" she says. "You actually have a boner."_

_"Masochist," I murmur. "I'll get off your lap though --"_

_"No," she says, putting her hand on my newly waxed ass. The coolness of her palm burns._

_"You're gonna fuck me," she says._

_She pushes me off so she can stand, pulling down her tights and underwear, but leaving on her skirt and sweater. Just enough space between her legs that I can crawl between them and press my face to her. My lips grazing her._

_"All your clothes off," she says._

_I look up at her as I unbutton my flannel, pull the white shirt over my head, and kneel before her, naked, my ass probably red, my legs, my underarms, my chest, my groin all waxed too, from earlier. Without my normal body hair, I feel all the more tender and exposed. Vulnerable._

_She makes a small, satisfied noise._

_"Watch," she says, stepping back, pressing her back into the wall of my bathroom. Spreading her legs and touching herself beneath the pleats of her skirt. Her cheeks pinking, the freckles standing out darker. Her small gasps._

_"Now," she says. "Now," gesturing for me. Lips flattened with impatience as I roll the condom on._

_I have her -- or she me -- up against the wall. Slow, deep thrusts at first, feeling her shiver each time. And then shorter, desperate thrusts, her knees hitched around my ribs, ankles locked in the small of my back, pressing, arching into me._

_"Abigail," I whisper, kissing her lightly, through the tangle of her hair. "Abigail." As if by saying her name I can reach her._

_She makes sounds in the back of throat; of want, or pleasure, or something else. I can't be sure. But it's good, her clothes coarse against my naked skin, blood beating in my ears as we tremble together._

_I won't ask for more._

* * *

[insert pic of Will looking a little ruffled]

Ah, the fine art of _manscaping_. I can't say it's a bad thing, but I can also say that I am not much invested in it. Despite my proclivities and -- history -- the most I usually do is trim.

Though, I recently _did_ remove all of my hair, except for my eyebrows and the hair on my head, because Abigail did No Shave November for her Sociology class. Apparently she received extra credit to document it her experiences, and comment on her reactions and the reactions others had about her hairy armpits, legs, etc. She mentioned that the guys in her class would get extra credit for doing the reverse -- shaving or waxing _everything_ \-- and one day I thought "why not?"

I may or may not have looted Abigail's own wax kit to complete the experiment (and I replaced everything I used, mind you. I am no thief). Abigail was, in her way, amused. But Hannibal was not involved and didn't help. In fact, he'd no knowledge of what I had done for a few days at least, until I went to visit him.

When I came in I gave him what was meant to be our usual greeting kiss, a brief, warm touch of the lips. It turned lingering; he ran his thumb along my jaw and throat.

"You look lovely clean shaven," he said, smiling, and then ushered me into the kitchen, pouring some wine.

"What's the occasion?" he asked.

I explained to him, swilling without bothering to sniff just to see him bristle. But he didn't respond to that, or to the waxing. At least at first. He was concentrating on breading veal cutlets for dinner. It was later, when we were both plump and sated from the meal, that he asked me about the waxing again.

"So you waxed . . . everything _?_ " he asked as I helped him with the dishes.

" _Everything,"_ I confirmed, grinning.

"Hmm," he said and he seemed pleased.

"You want to see," I said, a statement of fact. He smiled in response.

I slowly began removing my clothes for him, right there in the middle of his kitchen. Taking my time with each button of my shirt, teasing my belt out of each loop, unzipping and parting open my jeans and wriggling them lower, and lower. Pulling my white shirt over my head; stepping out of my jeans and turning so he could see as I inched my boxer briefs down. He watched while he finished drying a few dishes, his expression attentive. And when I was finished, I turned for him, letting his gaze, warm as his mouth or his hands on me, trace the curve of my ass, the line of my navel, the softness of my already half hard cock.

"Well," he said, practically preening. Because I was naked _just_ for him.

"My beautiful, handsome man," he purred, leaning into kiss me, then leading me up the stairs to the bedroom, where he had me undress him just as slowly. First his tie -- between kisses -- then the buttons of his vest. The lean drumskin of his belly shivering with anticipation as I freed him of his shirt. His nipples hardening beneath my hands, the quick licks of my tongue. Then his belt slithering, black snakelike leather, through the loops of his fine gray trousers. And of course, his trousers billowing to the floor, his boxers soon after.

I knelt in front of him then, holding his gaze as I nuzzled his thigh, and brushed my lips against his cock.

"Go lay on the bed," he said, with a kind of tenderness that almost made me feel nauseous. Not because Hannibal is not tender; there's just more often a briskness to him. An efficiency. His cup does not runneth over with warmth, you could say.

"I want to see you naked like this," he said simply, and went around turning on all the lights while I splayed out for him.

It seemed like a long time that he sat on the edge of the bed, just looking at me. Gesturing that I should turn over now and again so he could see me from a different angle. I almost joked that he should "draw me like one of your French girls", but it seemed profane to do that. So I was quiet while his gaze caressed me. I grew hard from him just looking.

When he finally came to me, he was not demanding. His touch was light and smooth as silk against my skin. He ran his fingers over my face, my throat, down my chest, my belly. His knuckles grazed my cock, and he cupped my balls in his hand while he gently kissed me, his breath moist and hot against my lips.

"Beautiful," he hummed again. "My beautiful Will." His hand around my waist now, like a drawstring pulling our bodies together: the hair on his chest scratching against my naked chest; his legs and arms and belly coarse against mine; his cock thick and hot velvety, even through his body hair rubbing against my naked, sensitive skin. I gasped as he rocked against me, because without my hair, it felt like every little part of me was more open and exposed. Tender.

He kissed me, tongue swiping into my mouth, and I rolled under him, just to feel the firm, burning press of his body over me, feel the muscles and sinews of his back and spine against my palms as I arced into him. My hand around both our cocks, squeezing as we rocked together. I came with him looking down on me. His eyes were open and he was staring at me the same way I've seen him stare at the stars when he stays at my house.

Sometimes we sit outside on the porch at night and drink whisky and port (or, lately, mulled wine with port -- Hannibal's recipe) and he looks through my telescope at the white dusting of the Milky Way. It's hard to see him in the half light, cupping his glass, but I can tell by the way he moves, by the crinkles around his eyes, that he is always pleased and humbled by looking at the stars. That it makes him think of wonder, of beauty. Of the inconstant and miraculous nature of life.

It was as if I was a constellation in his eyes. I was the warm light between dark places. And it frightened and humbled and moved him.

"Hannibal," I whispered as I came and he said "Sssh," as he shuddered into my hand and buried his face in my throat.

* * *

_It's slow, moving from this place. His warm body and his slow, tender kisses._

_"We should shower," I mumble, and he's growing heavier on top of me now. Not unpleasant though._

_He grunts but doesn't move yet._

_When he finally do, he asks me about Abigail._

_I shrug, letting him run his nails over my scalp as he shampoos me._

_"You did this for her?" he asks._

_I shrug again._

_"More or less. I guess."_

_"You guess." Not a question, but I hear something in his voice. Chiding? Incredulity?_

_"What is it?" I ask as he rinses the shampoo out of my hair, mindful of my eyes. I find that strangely touching, and even ironic, given he is a sadist, and not just in the sexual sense. He is a great many things and -- keeping shampoo out of his lover's eyes doesn't seem to overlap with those things._

_But that would be wrong._

_Hannibal is quite for a moment._

_"I am afraid for you Will," he says at last, and I don't know what he means by "afraid". Hannibal's emotional lexicon is different than most._

_"Afraid for what?" I ask finally._

_"She will break your heart," he says._

_"It's fine," I lie, washing his belly. I know he knows it's a lie, but, there's nothing I can possibly say. I won't give her up -- not now -- at least. It's fine._

_He purses his lips in that way that communicates his disagreement._

_"You're the one who suggested our arrangement," I snap, scrubbing his hair now, being sure to be gentle because he doesn't care for nails on his scalp._

_"So I did. I did not foresee that you would fall in love with her, though."_

_"Jealous?"_

_"Don't be petty, Will," he says and there's silence as I rinse his hair._

_Outside of his shower, toweling each other, he whispers:_

_"I could cut her ear off if she hurts you."_

_"Jesus Hannibal,_ no. _" I try not to laugh. He's serious -- of course he is -- but I should have known, really._

_"Would you kill me if I hurt her?" he says, mocking now. The masks are all off for a moment and he is this ugly, broken, malnourished little thing._

_"No," I say. Because I see. I know him for who he is. All of him._

_"There would be a reckoning, doctor. You wouldn't like it."_

_And my voice is soft but he knows I mean every word, and every one is like the fine, exact slice of a scalpel._

_His lips pull back over his teeth. The imitation of a smile._

_"Neither would you, I imagine."_

_As we roll into bed together, he says, finally: "If she means that much to you still, I won't hurt her. For now."_

_"Oh thank you ever so much for your blessing," I say sarcastically, too weary to start a real fight, or even resist as he wraps his arms around me._

_"But if she hurts you Will --"_

_I kiss him._

_"Shut up," I tell him when I break the kiss. He bristles at this, and then settles. I kiss him again until I feel him sigh and relax._

_Can a psychopath love? He smells of soap and shampoo and our warm bodies. I should feel more uneasy, especially for Abigail. But I just let his body cup mine, and listen as our breathing becomes low, and deep._

_I just feel safe. And cherished._

_I wouldn't ask for more._


	82. Holidays Suck (Abigail POV)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Abigail lends her point of view.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Originally posted here.](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/105714482328/mindpalace2k15-it-appears-first-in-the) This is related to some crossover shenanigans that Will is having (which you can find on [AO3 here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2769209/chapters/6209975)), but, I find the scene important and relevant enough to include here as well.

[OOC: This is linked to the previous chapter/post.]

Holidays deeply suck. Can't stop thinking about that, and it sucks even more because it's keeping me from falling comfortably asleep with my face in a magazine at Hannibal's kitchen table. 

"Abigail," he says. "Are you all right?"

He's drying one of those fancy pots of his, probably worth more than a couple hundred bucks. Worth more than most of my grocery budget for a month. 

"I'm fine," I lie and he knows it. He always  _knows._ He's creepy like my dad that way. How does Will even stand it?

"I just had finals a then work and I'm still catching up," I hear my voice and I sound fragile and far away, even to myself. 

"Maybe this business of school, work, and living on your own is too much for you," he says and he is putting on the Nice Face when he says it. Ugh. Here we go with the Paternal Advice Interlude. 

"Maybe you should just live with myself or Will. Work less. Focus on your studies."

"No. I'm fine," I say. "Lots of people have it worse than me where I got to school. I'll get used to it."

He purses his lips in that way that says he disagrees and doesn't like my answer one little bit. My dad used to smile at me when he didn't like what I had to say. Well, he's not my fucking dad and no one gets to tell me what to do anymore. 

But that's why the holidays suck so deeply. I don't have anyone else. Just Hannibal and Will. And the last thing I want to do is live with  _either_ of them. Hannibal will be sneaking body parts into the house and pretending  _nothing is going on_ and Will and I would be fucking like rabbits and  _pretending nothing is awkward_ between the fuckings. I would rather work myself into exhaustion and have my shitty shoebox of a single room apartment where I can have peace and quiet and  _neither of them in my headspace or my physical space_ thanks. 

Impasse. Hannibal: 0, Abigail: ?. I never know with Hannibal. So we look out the window because there's nothing left to say. 

Will romping around Hannibal's yard like a giant scruffy puppy. 

I've never seen a guy so excited about hanging Christmas lights. My dad did it because he  _insisted_ the neighbors would say something if we didn't, but the Christmas lights always came out cold to me. Light they had no light or merry cheer to them. They were just there for show. 

But Will looks like he is having the time of his life, though tangled up in Hannibal's Christmas lights right now. Still, it's hard. It's hard not to like him because he seems to have the time of his life with a lot of things: cooking with Hannibal, listening to Hannibal's blah blah blah fancy bullshit babble. Spending time with his dogs.

When he sees me. 

"Will is being gallant and hanging the lights for me this year. Don't tell him I might have to redo them," Hannibal says, with what that weird humor of his. He loves Will. But there is something really too imprecise about Will's light hanging -- now he's thrashing around in the snow a little, still tangled -- it just won't please Hannibal. 

But he's not really hanging the lights to be totally gallant, because he keeps peering into the neighbor's windows. 

"So gallant," I say. 

Hannibal smiles that smile he only has for Will and for some ridiculous reason I want to gouge his eyes out. Jealous sometimes, I guess. It comes and goes. 

"What do you think about visiting the neighbors?" I ask.

"Oh, I am warming to the idea," he says. "Will has been very persuasive."

I can imagine exactly his type of persuasion -- he's a walking boner half the time -- and it makes me so stupidly fond of him I want to run out and kiss him on the mouth. But that passes too. Comes and goes. 

"I wouldn't mind visiting the neighbors either." And I might as well have cut my leg off and shoved it down my throat. The minute the words are out I know it. Even before Hannibal goes perfectly still. 

"What would your interest in the neighbors be, dear Abigail?" he asks in that low voice of his. Barely above a whisper. 

I press my lips together and arch my eyebrow at him but say nothing. He's heard the conversations I've had with Will at the window. About a certain neighbor's shocking, muscular thighs, and how it would feel to be between them. Even if he wasn't there, Hannibal always knows. Or figures it out. Somehow. 

"You should be very careful Abigail."

"About what?" I snap. It was his fucking idea in the first place.  _Hey Will and Abigail, you seem to have a lot of unresolved sexual tension, why don't you fuck and see how that pans out for you?_

"Will has grown quiet attached to you," he says. "You should . . . be mindful of his affections for you. It might not be . . . wise . . . for you to have dalliances with other men."

He says it all in the same soft tone. My dad used the same tone when he told me he loved me at night. 

I shrug to tell him:  _I get it okay._

I should be terrified. My heart should be in my throat and all that. All I can manage is feeling irritated though. Emotions have been really funny since my parents died. All muted and washed out. Like the world is colorless and lightless and just -- blah. 

Later, Will's finished with the lights, dusting snow out of his bouncing curls, and babbling excitedly about the neighbors and mistletoe and everyone kissing and something about a regular, good old fashioned orgy. He asks me what's wrong when I don't say anything.

"I'm fine," I say. "Tired."


	83. A Weird Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Abigail hijacks Will's blog and answers an ask.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Original post and reblogs can all be viewed here.](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/105803252433/were-you-ever-a-sex-worker-or-take-a-payment-for)

 

> **Warpedchyld asks: Were you ever a sex worker or take a payment for sex? Not necessarily money, but an item? OR have you ever worked as an exotic danger or adult film star?**

 

[A picture of Abigail looking rather amused.]

Well  _there’s_ some interesting questions.

I mean, I  _don’t know for sure_ and these are questions Hannibal could probably answer in more detail and all. But if I had to make a guess:

  * Yes. Once there was a time when he was a poor boy in high school. His only dream was to take another poor boy out for a date. But he didn’t have the money for an expensive night at the bowling alley. (The hot place in town for everyone to go. Nevermind that it was the  _only_ place in that town to go, and smelled of burnt popcorn and the stale lost dreams of gross old men and their uptight churchgoing wives.) Will got all sad about the fact he didn’t have the money and spilled his heart out to a teacher. The teacher was a pervert and offered to pay Will the date money if he ate her out. Of course he did. 
  * Probably once he took some items from past lovers which include: a dog, another dog,  _Commander Cody and the Lost Planet Airmen, Live from Deep in the Heart of Texas,_ a toothbrush, a fancy electric beard trimmer, and another dog. (I think he stole  _Commander Cody_ because even Will’s taste in music cannot explain this album cover:



[A picture of the Commander Cody album cover, depicting mounds of crowd surfing armadillos.]

What the fuck?  _Crowd surfing armadillos?_ My parents were right. The 60’s and 70’s were a weird time.)

  * To pay for his fancy graduate training, Will Graham used to be a dancer at a local strip club. His stripper name was Gaylord Von Twink Bottom. Sometimes he was also known as Twinky Sparkle Dancer. Don’t ask. 
  * He was also in a series of adult films where he teamed up with another amateur porn star. They played buddy porn cops. Will was  _good_ cop. His buddy was  _bad_ cop. Bad cop liked the riding crop and the weird kinky stuff (“sit on my faaaaace!”). Will stood around looking delicate and pretty and giving everyone the best oral. You can still find those videos online sometimes but they have a really cheesy soundtrack and Will looks like a watered down version of a Chippendale’s dancer, so. 



\- Abigail

 

**Will's Reblog:**

[A picture of Will looking winded and taken aback.]

I knew it wasn’t a great idea to leave that browser window open while I took the dogs for a walk. It’s almost like I trust people not to go through my crappy old laptop. 

 **Tags:**  [#abigail hobbs](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/tagged/abigail-hobbs) [#abigail](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/tagged/abigail) [#what are you doing](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/tagged/what-are-you-doing) [#please tell me you didn't read anything](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/tagged/please-tell-me-you-didn%27t-read-anything) [#please](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/tagged/please)

 

**Abigail's Reblog:**

[#abigail hobbs](https://tumblr.com/tagged/abigail-hobbs) [#abigail](https://tumblr.com/tagged/abigail) [#what are you doing](https://tumblr.com/tagged/what-are-you-doing) [#please tell me you didn’t read anything](https://tumblr.com/tagged/please-tell-me-you-didn%27t-read-anything) [#please](https://tumblr.com/tagged/please)

[A picture of Abigail smiling at Will over her shoulder. She is all _mischief_.]


	84. So About that Last Ask

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will addresses the questions that were not addressed when Abigail hijacked his blog.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Originally posted here.](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/105835469333/so-about-that-last-ask)

I am sorry [warpedchyld](http://tmblr.co/mlebS9_apDBOYl0jM3N3ADg) that Abigail hijacked that and . . . well. I'm not really a bastion of parental goodness or anything, but I was hoping she wouldn't find the blog, much less, find it through my own carelessness by leaving a browser window open. 

But now it's found and she's been giggling and taunting me for the last . . .  _nearly three hours._  I don't know when it will stop. I am thinking seriously of tying her up in the woods and leaving her, but it will be almost below freezing point tonight, so probably not. 

As for your questions [warpedchyld](http://tmblr.co/mlebS9_apDBOYl0jM3N3ADg), and Abigail's erroneous answers to them, followed by my  _correct_  answers:

> **Were you ever a sex worker or take a payment for sex? Not necessarily money, but an item? OR have you ever worked as an exotic danger or adult film star?**

  * ~~Will got all sad about the fact he didn’t have the money and spilled his heart out to a teacher. The teacher was a pervert and offered to pay Will the date money if he ate her out. Of course he did.~~



I  _never_ took money from a high school teacher to "eat her out" so I could take a guy out to a local bowling alley. I have  _never_ slept with a teacher, except for a professor in college once and it was after the course had finished.  ~~Mostly.~~

At any rate I've never done sex work, either by choice or otherwise. I've been fortunate. I got into the police academy and did well in my early years on the force before moving to homicide in New Orleans. Working homicide in New Orleans cured me of  _any_  fantasies about sex work. I saw enough abused and dead sex workers in my time to line the streets of that city. Sex work is not something I would ever wish on someone who didn't want to do it, and it's something I wouldn't wish even on people who say they  _do_ want to do it, because it's exhausting, grueling, and often inhumane. To be honest when I was a cop I was supposed to be arresting people for basically carrying around condoms on the off chance they might be soliciting for sex. (And, often enough, that  _would_  have been  _me.)_  But if I ran into any sex workers while working, I would tell them to go somewhere else because another cop would likely be around and  _would_  arrest them. The way the New Orleans police department deals with sex workers [directly contributes to the alarmingly high HIV infection rates in that city](http://www.hrw.org/news/2013/12/10/us-louisiana-fuels-hiv-epidemic). To say it's a disaster is a little quaint. 

I have taken payment for sex though, I suppose. When I was younger, and in college. I met an . . . older gentleman one evening, who paid me rather handsomely after I spent the night with him in his hotel. I think he was lonely. He did not speak much English. He spoke some kind of French I could not get a handle on, and some German. We muddled through. I spent a good amount of time sucking his cock -- and a nice cock it was, thick and heavy between my lips, his balls tightening just before he came. But after that he mostly just wanted me to stay and talk to him. I don't think he understood most of what I said, but I told him stories about growing up in the South, and I told him stories my Grandmother used to tell me. I held him and stroked his hair. When he dropped me off at my home the next morning, he gave me some money and was gone before I could protest. I think it was his way of saying "thank you".  ~~  
~~

  * ~~Probably once he took some items from past lovers which include: a dog, another dog, _Commander Cody and the Lost Planet Airmen, Live from Deep in the Heart of Texas,_ a toothbrush, a fancy electric beard trimmer, and another dog.~~



I don't steal dogs, generally. I haven't taken items in lieu of payment but I have taken things, sometimes, from past lovers, usually by accident. I did take [James](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/94170012588/would-you-ever-consider-hooking-up-with-trans-men)' dog-eared, favorite copy of Rumi translations when we broke up, half out of spite, and half out of missing him hideously and wanting  _something, anything_ of his to keep and remind me of him. I still have it though it's been awhile since I dug it out. I have my own copies of Rumi now. 

 _Commander Cody and the Lost Planet Airmen Live from Deep in the Heart of Texas_  is an amazing album though, and the purchase was completely of my own volition.

  * ~~To pay for his fancy graduate training, Will Graham used to be a dancer at a local strip club.~~



Thankfully, I have never been an exotic dancer of any kind. I say "thankfully" because that would have been an unfortunate thing for my audience. Hannnibal is the dancer, between the two of us. I get around well enough -- gracefully even, Hannibal has said -- but that is not something I would wish upon a paying audience. I do of course do private strip teases for partners. 

  * ~~He was also in a series of adult films where he teamed up with another amateur porn star. They played buddy porn cops.~~



I haven't been in porn either.I've done . . . what you could call "home videos" though, between intimate partners. Hannibal and I honestly have a bit of a private collection, but those things are shared only between us. 

Also, I am  _not_  a watered down version of a Chippendale's dancer. Maybe my physique is not quiet as "built" as some, but it's mine and I quite like what I  _do_  have. And I've not heard any  _complaints_ about it either. 

I hope that answers your questions more sufficiently than Abigail's . .  . stories.


	85. Cruel and Usual Punishment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Follows the last post.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Originally reblogged here.](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/105835469333/so-about-that-last-ask)

> **Warpedchyld: *munches popcorn and offers some* Compared to some parents I have known of, you ARE a bastion of….well…okay, let’s say you are not the worst I have come across. It was amusing regardless and give my thanks to Blabigail for the smile and thank you to you for answering.**
> 
> **Who first suggested filming, you or Hannibal?**

 

Blabigail just blew a kiss as she headed towards the bathroom, but I think it was sarcastic. 

I suggested the filming. Hannibal found the idea quite crass at first -- debasing he said -- but . . . I persuaded him. I might have made a couple videos and uploaded them onto his iPad right before he went to a conference. Hannibal being Hannibal, he found the new files on his iPad right away, and, according to him, "barely escaped open indignity at the airport". He'd tapped on one of the files, you see, and the video began playing while he waited in the lobby to board his plane. 

I heard from him that night, after his plane landed and he'd settled into his hotel room. I knew he'd found the videos because when he called, his voice was coarse, and he informed me I was "impudent" for doing such a thing (invading the privacy of his iPad was borderline  _rude_ ), and that my punishment would have to be listening to him masturbate and come over the phone . . . and not being allowed to touch myself. Not being allowed to do so until he got back from the conference. And he would  _know_  if I did. 

The rest of the weekend he sent me some pretty lewd emails (all in French or Latin, mind you). At night he would call me and beat off over the phone, describing all manner of ways he would fuck me, before coming, and hanging up. 

It was a cruelly long weekend, I have to say. But it was a fair punishment, all things considered. 

When he returned I met him at the airport. We were at least able to make it back to my car, parked in the garage. But it only took a whopping three minutes in my car -- one of his hands around my cock, the other around my throat, while I apologized and begged -- before I came.

After he got a few . .  . samples, shall we say . . . Hannibal became more amenable to the idea of making videos  _together_. 

 


	86. The Days We Met

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will comes home after a night with Hannibal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Originally posted here.](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/105987422203/the-days-we-met-ooc-stuff-that-has-gone-on)

** **

** **

 

**The Days We Met**

[OOC: Stuff that has gone on outside of the blog over the last few days. I would have posted in real time except that I didn't figure these things out until late Saturday/early Sunday. While I am a fast writer, I am not capable of writing fast enough to stop or reverse the flow of time. (Pity.)

Warnings for: descriptions of violence and gore. Will and his murder boners. If you like Will doting on Abigail like she is super delicate and fragile, you might not like some of this either. Eh.

Sorry about the BAD COLORING JOB on the graphics I am a writer not an artist.]

* * *

**December 20th, 2014**

 

**Will**

_I want to fuck._

_I feel it in my bones and blood and flesh, cavernous and wanting. My tongue a razor. I could slice him open: rimming him, sucking him off, ringing his throat with kisses._

_Instead I press my hand to my erection and wait. Focus on the bumps in the road as the Bentley winds through the black countryside._

_"Will, we're almost home."_

_Hannibal's voice like faraway echoes. Insubstantial as our breath pluming in the cold night air as he took Andrew Caldwell's lungs out. He'd still been alive -- Caldwell -- and the noises he made as he died had been -- shouldn't have been -- so exquisite._

_Hannibal killed him much like he did Cassie Boyle. It was a gesture of love this time though, rather than contempt or mocking. Because he looked at me as he did it. He looked at me while Caldwell died. And Hannibal's eyes were dark and starless as the night around us. Dark as old blood as he mounted Caldwell on the trunk of a black cherry tree._

_Hannibal had hummed "Gloria" as he displayed the body._

_I still don't know. Is it sacred and beautiful, or profane and horrifying?_

_The scent of fear, of death -- that glorious metallic stink -- is in me still. My body reverberates with it as he drives me home and I want nothing more than for him to pull over and push me into the back seat and part my thighs and just_ fuck _into me, his plastic suit crinkling, smearing me in little trace amounts of gore and viscera he might have missed._

_Instead he pulls into my driveway and tells me he will see me in a few days. He has some necessary clean up to do, of course._

_I almost balk at him. He knows how I am. Has seen me palming myself roughly through my jeans half the night. The only reason I didn't come at the scene itself was I hadn't worn my own plastic suit, and even the slightest chance of that kind of damning genetic evidence was too much. But I'd been patient, and oh so good, watching, and waiting._

_I snort and look rather pointedly at my groin._

_Hannibal smiles -- flattered -- but unaffected._

_"In usual circumstances, or if we had shared this like the last one," he says carefully. "I know your penchant for . . . such things. It's quite alluring. But for my own part I don't necessarily find the act itself arousing the same way you do. Sensuous, yes. But not . . . I hope you understand."_

_I nod. It's probably for the best. I want to puke all over the floor of his Bentley at any rate. From disgust or shame or relief or love or want._

_He looks at me in a way that implies I shouldn't have come. I've hunted with him before. I've seen and -- admired -- his work before. But I've never seen him work on his own before._

_"I just need some rest," I say, hoping I'm convincing enough for him. Convincing enough he won't be hurt, or think I'm rebuffing what he's shown me. What he's given me. The fresh flowers that he'd deposited in Caldwell's chest, a giddy, heady mixture which all signified love, love, love, like a beating heart blooming in the midst of winter._

_"I will see you in a few days," he says patiently._

_I watch the Bentley wind out of my driveway and stamp my feet hard, harder, listening to the snap and crackle of ice breaking in the soil below. I meander the woods around my house, trying to get this out of me -- this need, sharp as a knife in the gut -- but it's cold and so I haul myself home, shivering, sticky with cold and sweat. The house quiet and dark and warm. The dogs all nuzzled together in the living room by the fire, embers burning low and red. Abigail had banked the fire for the night, and done well, and it's entirely pleasing for some reason._

_"Will?" I hear her voice, faint at first, and sleepy, and then louder. From the bedroom._

_"It's like two in the morning," she mumbles and everything is red and wanting. Everything. My hands on her face. My lips against hers. My hands pulling away the comforter and sheets, reaching under the t-shirt she is sleeping in, dipping into her underwear. And she is so hot it hurts as I push her down into the mattress, as I yank her underwear off and feel her become wet against my fingers. So hot it hurts as I fumble with my jeans, pull myself through the fly of my boxer briefs and push into her, heavy, sharp. Her little gasps as I snap my hips. Her hands clawing at my jacket, my sides. Everything red as I come inside her, shaking, wondering if she can smell the residue of blood and fear on me._

_It's quiet now and I feel her shuddering around me like she might come, but after a few moments our breathing evens out. It's dark and I want to crawl outside and throw up in the snow. I pull out of her -- carefully -- but feel dizzy. Disgusting._

_"Shit," I whisper. "Shit, the condom."_

_Abigail laughs._

**Abigail**

_Not exactly sexy at two am, stomping in in the dead of night, his hands all cold as he digs for me, tearing off blankets and clothes. He's all hands and mouth and -- something bigger than just need. Something with claws and teeth._

_He's inside me, his cock thick and stinging. For a minute I'm still with shock, but he's inside me, moving, stabs of pleasure making me sweat. I grab onto his clothes, just trying to hold on._

_Told him "no" earlier. After coming back from Hannibal's house. Because Hannibal was being all pissy and -- well -- a cunt like he is.[Making threats.](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/105714482328/mindpalace2k15-it-appears-first-in-the) And I didn't really want to be skinned and eaten or whatever he does just because he didn't want me with Will for whatever reason. Because I would break Will's heart, apparently. _

_I mean, why does he think I keep Will at arm's length all the time? It's not just because I sometimes want to punch Will in the face -- he did shoot and kill my dad. And pretty much . . . helped ruin my life. It's not just because I'm really screwed up._

_I still have enough of a heart, I think, to care. To want to hold Will close sometimes and cradle him. To let him nuzzle my throat and breathe endearments into my scar, like those endearments will fix something._

_But. I've wanted this. Rough and coarse. His hands on my shoulders forcing me onto him harder with each thrust. His whole body coiled around me as he growls, sinking his teeth into my shoulder._

_He finishes inside me, a strange hot burst, and then sinks down on top of me. While I feel him shuddering and my body just wanting more, more -- I think -- I've wanted this since he first came into my life. Since that day he tore bloody holes through my father. When Will's hands were so slippery with my mother's blood he couldn't even hold onto me and he was just wild and panicked and lost. Like a little bird pushed out of his nest too early._

_I've wanted this and I didn't even know why or how or what, but it makes me laugh._

_"Why are you laughing? This is not funny," he says. He's rolled off me now, and going on about the condom again. I guess given what he calls his "proclivities" I should be more worried._

_"Sorry, it was," I say. "Uhm. No it's not funny it's just that. I really liked that."_

_He's quiet for awhile and I wonder if he is having some kind of existential moral crises again._

_"Oh," he says, and sounds incredibly tired._

_"We'll need to go in on Monday and get tested. Both of us," he says as I reach for him._

_"Yeah, I know."_

_Jacket, sweater, button up shirt, t-shirt -- how many layers does this guy seriously need?_

_He'll have to talk to Hannibal about the condom thing too, since they're magically fluid bonded and all. I get it. Even if I'm on birth control, STD's suck, HIV is a real thing, Will is a walking boner who would fuck a table if it looked good enough._

_But -- I just want this right now. His body against mine. I want one thing that is not complicated. I want to be a normal nineteen, not this crazy screwed up nineteen and having to worry about being dead (again). I want to be a normal nineteen who gets to fuck an older guy and count it as some kind of life experience, and not give a shit. Not catalogue all of my trauma again._

_I kiss him and he's warm and sweaty and smells of the cold night air and something else. Metallic. Dangerous._

_"Abigail," he murmurs as I stroke his soft cock and put him inside me._

_I rock against him and he hardens inside me. This time it's slow and he stops to go down on me, to taste me -- and him -- before finishing inside me again._

_I'm probably already dead. At least, in Hannibal's eyes. I should enjoy myself while I can. I figure as much as I fall asleep, arms looped all lazy around Will._

_[Especially when, in the morning, Will leaves his laptop and a browser window for his crazy sex blog open.](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/105803252433/were-you-ever-a-sex-worker-or-take-a-payment-for) _

 


	87. A Goddamn Christmas Miracle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> My dearest and most adored love…is there anything you wouldn’t (or haven’t) tap? I mean at this point about all you’ve left out is bestiality and with all those dogs…sure there’s never been a peanut butter incident?

 

> **My dearest and most adored love…is there anything you _wouldn’t_  (or haven’t) tap? I mean at this point about all you’ve left out is bestiality and with all those dogs…sure there’s never been a peanut butter incident?**

 

Peanut … butter … incident?

Do you mean to suggest that, in a fit of sexual desperation, I might have slathered peanut butter on  _intimate_ parts of my body and allowed my dogs to  _lick it off_? That I might have been on my hands and trembling knees as one of my dogs lapped me until I was flush and moaning? And in that desperate, vulnerable, exposed moment, after pushing two lubed fingers my ass to make sure that I was wet and loose enough, I spread my ass and allowed one of my dogs to mount me and fuck me like a bitch in heat? And, just as I climaxed, angels of the doggie lord descended from on high and played a rapturous tune upon their golden harps, and declared the union between myself and my dogs sacred and that lo, I was now pregnant by said union and it was a  _goddamn Christmas miracle_. 

_**NO.** _

First, such a thing is a felony in Virginia. So even if I  _wanted_  to do it it wouldn’t even be remotely worth it. 

Second, after forcing myself to type all that, I have the  _opposite_  of blue balls. My dick is numb. My dick never wants to be touched again. Neither do my balls. 

I won’t judge people if these kinds of  _fantasies_  float their proverbial boats, but even thinking about this kind of thing is like the iceberg that sank the Titanic for me. 

 

**Abigail's Reblog:**

Recipe for Will Graham’s Anti-Boner.

(I tried this out so you don’t have to.)

  1. Spend twenty minutes working on him until he is  _so close._
  2. In your most seductive voice, lean in and whisper: “Doggies.”
  3. Feel his boner deflate like a balloon.



 

**Will's Reblog:**

Thank you for your contributions Abigail. Your brave work for  _science_  and all.

 **Tags:** #i really wasn't telling people about us for reasons #and not that you were complaining #when i fingered you and sucked you until you came #again #but that's none of my business #as the saying goes these days


	88. Merry Christmas etc

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will's short Christmas announcement.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Originally posted here.](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/106155191348/merry-christmas-etc)

Merry Christmas and general happy holidays everyone!

Not much to post today, as I am (naturally) spending it in the company of loved ones. I'm at Hannibal's house for today, with Abigail (who has joined us on Tumblr as secretskeeping). Since she joined Tumblr to "bug the shit out of you [ie, me, Will]" she asks that you not send her "gross porny asks". 

On that note, have a .gif of dick in a box, since it seems to a) encompass the spirit of the season and b) encompass the spirit of the blog.

 

[Gif of Justin Timberlake from the music Video "Dick a Box". He is wearing a Santa hat and has a brightly wrapped present over his crotch.]

Don't say I never got you anything. 

[OOC: But of course there is so much more in the next chapter.]


	89. We Have Turned -- Every One -- To His Own Way

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "All we like sheep have gone astray." Hannibal's point of view on Christmas.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Originally posted here.](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/106153946393/ooc-christmas-timestamp-warnings-for)

Youtube: <https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RsWGzXN--QE>

[OOC: Christmas timestamp. Warnings for punishment, rough sex, Hannibal thinking of killing people, Hannibal being Hannibal, angst.

I also imagine that one of Hannibal's only Christmas traditions is listening to Handel's  _Messiah._ Hence the music and title.]

* * *

**We Have Turned -- Every One -- To His Own Way**

**December 25**

**Hannibal**

_"I cannot abide it," I say as soon as he's back from taking Abigail home to her apartment. He did not take long as I anticipated, however, which means that they didn't stop to have sex. He knows that, despite the day's festivities, my wraith will not be held at bay overlong._

_"What can't you abide?" he asks, taking his shoes off and hanging his coat in the closet. "Ah," he says when he sees me. The light from the streetlamps outside pours through the windows around the front door, and for a moment he is all silver and shadow. It's hateful, how much I want to draw him into my arms and to feel his extraordinary body become warmer when I touch him. Hateful because I would surely smell_ _her_ _all over him, as I did throughout the entire day. Hateful because she is only a teenage girl, and yet I trifle with the idea of breaking her neck. Hateful because this whole arrangement has so soured._

_"Shall we argue while we wash and dry the dishes and then have make-up sex?" he says._

_I am temperate though; I don't strike him. Not yet, at least. He too, is weary. Christmas has been more arduous this year than last. All we did last year was exchange some small gifts and pleasures, kiss each other beneath mistletoe, and have Abigail over for dinner. The whole affair seems quiet luxurious and quaint after this year of dancing tersely around one another._

_"I'm serious Will," I tell him. "I cannot abide it. I won't. I didn't consent to . . ._ _sharing_ _you with someone else in that manner."_

_His mouth twists and it's not entirely unbecoming._

_"I know, I'm sorry," he says and the words are empty, because he's said them already: first, on the phone on Sunday, and then several times earlier today. He keeps saying "I'm sorry" and I don't understand why, except that he is sorry and it is exhausting now._

_"We've used condoms except that one night. I told you. And we got tested on Monday. The bloodwork on the HIV stuff will be in later but everything else was clear. I told you, it's probably fine. Neither Abigail or I have been with anyone else unprotected in the last couple months. We made a mistake."_

_Ah,_ the litany _as we return to the kitchen in step and I begin hand washing and he begins drying. I'm tired, too, of the litany._

_"It mustn't happen again."_

_"I know."_

_Quiet is a mercy sometimes, but now it is an agony. I imagine wrapping my hands around his throat and listening to the sounds his makes as the breath leaves him._

_"I'm sorry," he says again._

_Something inside me breaks, quietly._

_"On a chair. On your hands and knees," I tell him without raising my voice. "_ _Now_ _."_

_He complies, placing himself on a chair and presenting himself for me._

_I don't want the bullwhip this time, which I usually use for his graver transgressions. This time, after yanking his trousers and underwear out of the way, it is only my hands: bare and furious, painting the pale skin of his ass crimson with my own ire._

_"You think it's_ acceptable _?" I snarl, yanking his head back by his dark curls, and relishing the splendid glimmer of tears in his eyes already._

_"No -- no," he manages as I strike him several times without pausing._

_"Open your legs." He is wonderfully obedient, not even flinching as I pinch him between the legs, nor squirming when I squeeze his cock hard._

_"You are_ mine _,_ _" I tell him._

_He whimpers. This coarse, raw union which is now taking shape between us is both like and unlike_ _[the day he first had me on this kitchen floor, more than a year ago](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/94364846593/how-did-hannibal-first-seduce-you-or-perhaps-you). It had been coarse and raw then too; but then he had been snapping, feral. Now he is magnificent in a completely different way. His back is bowed beneath my hand; his skin blazes red where I've stricken him; his face is wet with tears._

_"Mine," I say, pushing my fingers into him. He doesn't even gasp, nor baulk. "Mine," I repeat, a refrain, a chorus as I force myself into him. My fingers wind around his throat. Dare I say it's satisfying to have him so at my mercy that he simply_ submits _? So that when I'm finished he only slumps on the chair, coughing, face running with tears and snot, ass brighter than all the red Christmas lights and ornaments decorating the world now?_

_Remarkable -- he won't even look at me. He's not being spiteful; it is because he respects my wraith, my punishment so much._

_"Will," I say, taking his chin in my hands so we can look at one another and_ _see_ _each other._

_He smiles hesitantly and it makes me think if stars being born._

_"I forgive you," I tell him, helping him up, gathering him in my arms, and taking him to the bathroom._

_He sighs sweet and full-sore into my touches now, pliant still as I spread aloe over the places I struck him. I kiss and caress him before taking his warm length into my mouth. I listen to his breathing again, this time unrestricted by my hand, and enjoy the sounds he makes while he orgasms._

_I cradle him to me. It's pleasingly silent and dark around us. And it's time. I've waited some months for this moment, and even after all these long years of emotional restraint, I still feel a kind of lightness, almost like giddiness._

_"I have something for you," I tell him, leaving the bed, his resplendent warmth._

_"Something else? You already got those really nice cufflinks --"_

_"Something else," I say, and I come to him, noiseless in the dark, with the box._

_"It's custom made," tell him, turning on a light so he can open it and see._

_He is silent for a long, long time, and I am happy for it. To cherish this moment as if it were frozen in amber._

_"Hannibal," he says. He runs his fingers over the metal. "I --"_

_"It's titanium," I tell him, rubbing the back of his neck._

_"It has my name engraved on it," he says._

_"I have ordered one too. For myself."_

_He looks stricken and I cannot prevent myself from smiling._

_"Even Steven," he says. "A collar for each of us."_

_"We are mutually bound to each other," I wrap my arms around him and bury my face in his neck and he smells only of_ me _._

_"I don't know what to say."_

_"Do you want me to put it on you?" I ask. And what a beautiful, intoxicating moment this will be, to lock that metal band around his throat, to have a more permanent visual confirmation he is_ _mine._ _Bruises and marks can fade, but the metal won't._

_"No," he says. "No . . . not . . . don't we need some kind of ceremony or something?"_

_"If you want a ceremony we can have one. I thought us together might be ceremony enough."_

_He doesn't say anything. He doesn't look at me. It's different now. Everything is darkening. The smells and colors are ebbing._

_"Is something wrong, Will?"_

_"No," he says. "It's just --" he laughs and the sound grates. "It's just a lot to take in. We haven't even talked about something like this. Like. A sign of commitment like this. You've . . . surprised me, that's all."_

_After a few minutes he says: "It's -- wonderful Hannibal. I love it. I do. I just need a few days to think about it. I'm not saying 'no'. I just need time to say 'yes'."_

_I think about strangling him again. I think about telling him to go home and never come back. I think about going to her apartment and tearing her into little pieces. But all that feverish energy is left me earlier. What defenses and reserves I have -- well._

_"Would you prefer a commitment with someone like Abigail?"_

_He blinks at me, surprised and, I think, hurt. A welcome enough sight._

_"No, of course not," and he sounds angry now and I_ _savor_ _it._

_"A commitment with Abigail would be a trainwreck. She's not ready for that. And what the fuck has gotten into both of you? You and Abigail are bouncing me around like a fucking tennis ball. Are you guys_ fighting _over me or something? Has my life become some bad_ Twilight _-_ _esque love triangle? Should I call you 'Edward'? You guys used to be friendly. Fuck." He rubs his face. "I can't believe this shit. I should just go home and let the both of you kill each other and live a life of peace and quiet with my dogs."_

_He looks at me and it's all wraith and ruin and I want nothing more, for a moment, than for him to cut me open and eat my heart for some reason. It seems incredibly apropos._

_"I wouldn't commit to her. Not now. It would be -- a bigger wreck than things are now. Fuck, she threatened to_ _kill_ _me once, when I got her up to go fishing at 3 am in the morning. She said she'd kill me and they'd never find the body," he laughs. "It was a joke though, but you know what I mean."_

_And there it is. The solution is simple enough, but it's been presented to me like an offering._

_"She said what, Will?"_

_"She'd kill me and they'd never find the body. It was a joke."_

_I pause just long enough to make him fretful over what I might say._

_"I don't know that it was a joke, Will."_

_He snorts. "Okay."_

_"I'm serious, Will. She . . ._ well _."_

_"Well what?"_

_"She killed Nicholas Boyle."_

_"Oh my god you are such a fucking child," he hisses. "Boyle went missing for all we know, or eloped or whatever -- you can't really --"_

_"I know because I helped her hide the body."_

_And then I watch as the rosy color drains from his cheeks and his pallor turns bone white, white as death._

_"Hannibal, if you are fucking lying --"_

_"I have never lied to you --"_

_"Except when you didn't tell me about Abigail killing Nicholas Boyle --"_

_"I thought that was her secret to keep and to do with as she felt best --"_

_"_ Bullshit,  _Hannibal--"_

_"If you don't believe me, then ask her."_

_"Why the fuck wouldn't you guys tell me?" he asks softly, but he's asking the question in general. It's not directed at me. There's no poetry in it either. His voice resonates with -- pain._

_He gets up._

_"Will?"_

_"I am going home before I say something I will regret," he says._

_It's a strange, sad pleasure, watching him go. He struggles to put his clothes on because his hands are shaking from anger, or from something else; I can't be entirely sure. I am never entirely sure with him. I hear him fumbling with the front door and then slam it behind him._

_I wonder if he will go to her right away, or if he will go home, or if he will go someplace else all together. Either way, it will be fascinating, I'm sure. Will always is._

_Though, it's an ugly thing: the collar and box which he knocked aside as he left, both abandoned on the floor._


	90. Fa la la la fuck it whiskey

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will has a plan after the events of Christmas. Kind of. Sort of. Eh.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Originally posted here.](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/106355206218/fa-la-la-la-fuck-it-whiskey)

Since the holidays were so magical for me, I have decided to spend the weekend getting up close and personal with Johnnie Walker and his associates, huddling in the house with my dogs, tinkering, and hopefully finishing those last asks sitting in my inbox, which I swear are beginning to stare at me with the same forlorn look my dog Buster has had for the past week.

(Abigail and I put up a Christmas tree and I told her not to hang anything in reach of Buster, because he pretty much attacks anything on the tree that he can get to. Since he can't get to anything work attacking, he stares mournfully at the tree, between occasionally growling and charging at the tree.)

So uhm, bottoms up.  _Puns fully intended._

 

 **Tags:** #so done with everyone and their bullshit #i need to retire early and live in some remote mountain cabin in the canadian wilderness #accessible during the winter months only via dog sled #that way i could have an excuse to have a whole pack of huskies #yes #good


	91. As If I Were Already His

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What did you do to earn the enema Hannibal gave you?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Originally posted here.](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/106420514293/asking-you-to-follow-up-on-a-very-long-ago-post)

[OOC: Dear readers: Do not do this enema. Just don’t. I pulled my research from [here](http://dominantguide.com/137/mystique-de-lavage-the-basics-of-enemas/), but I still just — no. Don’t. Thank!!!

Warnings for Will’s poor judgment, punishment, Hannibal being jealous and Hannibalish.]

 

* * *

 

> **Asking you to follow up on a very long ago post, if that's okay. If you don't want to answer, I completely understand. What did you do to earn the enema Hannibal gave you? What exactly happened when he did it?**

 

It’s your lucky damn day anon. I’ve been avoiding this ask like Hannibal avoids the  _very notion_ of shopping at Costco. (I think he’d rather be eviscerated than step foot in a Costco.) But I’ve had just enough whiskey now to answer this. At least I think.

So once upon a time when Hannibal and I were first dating we had a miscommunication. I was, as far as I can recall, pretty up front about the fact I was a monogamish type of person, that is, I want an open relationship. I thought Hannibal saw it the same way I did. Or agreed. Or something.

I didn’t know Hannibal’s personal lexicon so well then, so really, when he said he was “okay” with it, he meant, more or less:  _you still belong to me first._

We hadn’t really agreed to that yet, but in Hannibal’s mind that’s what it meant when we began dating in those first few months.

Naturally I went to a club one night. I was bored and horny and had encephalitis, though I didn’t know it. If anyone remembers those winning [1980’s advertisements for “this is your brain, this is your brain on drugs”](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ub_a2t0ZfTs), it was something like that for me. Only my normal brain is already in the pan and fried, and my brain on encephalitis was a delicious omelet of swelling, fever, nightmares, hallucinations, and, as it turns out, poor judgment.

So when I happened to meet up with an ex at the club, and his current boyfriend, we got to talking and all went back to my ex’s place.

Ex sex is one of the best worst things in all of human existence. It’s like eating a pound of bacon in one sitting. You know it’s probably not a great idea. You know that many reasonable adults would not make this choice. You know it will probably taste great going down, but once you’re done you will just feel vaguely ill and disgusted with yourself.

So why not. Why not let your ex and his boyfriend both take turns fucking you bareback. You’re just going to feel terrible anyways.  _You might as well._

And I know better. I do. I wasn’t precisely thinking clearly, but in the grim, pleasant logic of having a second man on top of me, inside me, thrusting, while my ex face-fucked me, I guess you could say that I trusted them both. My ex had never lied to me and both he and he his boyfriend had been tested recently, and so had I, so there was no real reason to worry, I thought.

Well. Except there was  _Hannibal_ now, too.

Ay, there’s the rub. Or, I should say, his hands on me when I told him a few days later.

Those firm, rough hands forcing me onto my hands and knees in his bathtub. His palms thudding into my ass while he asked me: “What kind of impudent little slut would do that?”

I wasn’t quite sure what was going on or why Hannibal was reacting the way he did. I liked it though. I liked how he grabbed my hair and he yanked my clothes off. As if I were already  _his_  to treat this way. I liked how he spanked me too: first with his palms, and then with his belt, until I was whimpering and my ass felt like he had set it on fire.

I could have said no. I think I could, at least. But I was far too taken aback by Hannibal — the prim, elegant therapist, this stunning specimen of a new boyfriend — treating me so roughly. I wanted to see where this was going.

Where it was going was an alka seltzer tab in my ass, the cold prick of a nozzle going in after, and then a trickle of warm water.

"Hannibal?" I asked

He spanked me again.

"You will hold it in you as long as I tell you to."

All right then, I thought, and began to feel full. And first it was just uncomfortable. But then things began to hiss and  _bubble_ inside me. Like I was being  _boiled_ from the inside.

I writhed and yelped, but Hannibal looped his belt over my throat and tightened it.

"Hold, boy," he said, removing the nozzle and pressing his fingers against my puckering entrance.

I am not sure how long I lasted. Hannibal tells me I did admirably, all things considered. All I remember is feeling my body finally buckle and then — like being split open — I just gave up. I was shaking and sweating and it felt like there would never be an end to the warm, fizzing liquid and shit that came out of me. It smelled sweet and rotten, like spoiled meat and something sterile from a hospital.

Of course he had stopped up his bathtub, so the liquid, an oily green and brown, collected all around me.

"Sit, boy," Hannibal jerked me into a crouch via his makeshift leash.

I did.

He left. I sat until I was shivering and cold. But I didn’t call for him.

He came back when he was satisfied. He cleared the tub and gave me a second enema — this one to clear out the debris of the first, and to soothe me. He crooned that I was beautiful, and obedient. He stroked me with soapy hands until I came, albeit rather weakly. He washed and rinsed me. As he toweled me off, I came back to myself and my body enough to ask: “Hannibal,  _what the flying fuck_?”

We had a long talk after that, though, I don’t remember everything about it. Mostly it was us discussing things about kink and safewords and the like. And him clarifying what he meant by certain things, versus what I had thought. He wasn’t upset so much with me being monogamish, so much as the exchange of fluids. I agreed it wasn’t a great idea on my part. I do remember feeling bewildered and upended and fragile. Ashamed too. And then warm and comforted in his arms.

"It’s all right Will, we’ll figure things out," he told me. And I believed him. I think I still would.


	92. Electrifying (Violet Wand)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What was your first time using a violet wand like?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Originally posted here.](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/106439202548/what-was-your-first-time-using-a-violet-wand-like)

> **What was your first time using a violet wand like?**

 

It was . . .  _electrifying._

You will have to forgive me. It was just too tempting to resist. And we know it's not that hard to tempt me in the first place.

The violet wand is also one thing which can make me come through sensation alone.

I've only ever let Hannibal use it on me. I wasn't aware he had any such thing when we started seeing one another, but as the months passed and we introduced more kink into our regime, he brought it up one evening, casually, as if he was talking about seeing a movie. He wondered if I might enjoy a session with it.  

I can't say I was keen on the idea of anyone using electricity on me, but, I was willing to give it a shot if Hannibal was the one doing it. He was, after all, a medical doctor at one point, a very skilled one at that, so he couldn't be completely off his gourd if he said that it was "perfectly medically safe" when the violet wand and such devices were used correctly.

At first we just started with a simple wand, at my house, since I would be most comfortable there. He mostly spent a few hours getting me used to the device. He first just ran it over my body so I could feel the current ripple across my skin. Gently, and then, as he pulled the wand further from my body, the current began to sting pleasantly, like needles just short of piercing my skin. I liked it enough that I asked him for more in a few days. And he was so skilled at weaving it over my body, the sensations tingling and aching through me, that I grew hard and came in that second session. Hannibal was, of course, disgustingly pleased with himself.

Over time we've added more  _electricity_  to our play, including a butt plug that he slides inside me. The first time he used it on me -- I did almost come from the sensation of it entering me. Again, the _stinging_ and warm surge of the current crackling pleasantly inside me; Hannibal's fingers stroking my nipples as I whimpered into his lips; our cocks rubbing together luxuriantly as he rocked against me; while pushed me down into the mattress, forcing the plug deeper, until it hummed against my prostrate.

It did not take long for me to come, digging my nails into his shoulder, rutting up against him, shaking, keening. 


	93. Force Feeding (Or Not)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Have you and Hannibal ever done anything in the way of force feeding?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Originally posted here.](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/106439480193/have-you-and-hannibal-ever-done-anything-in-the)

> **Have you and Hannibal ever done anything in the way of force feeding?**

 

Alas, no, anon. Unless of course, you mean, “does Hannibal occasionally decide the food you are eating is well beneath you (as his partner) and try to get you to eat what he deems more acceptable fare”? Then yes.

One of his most endearingly domestic habits is swapping out my lunch. I usually pack my lunch. If Hannibal stays overnight with me and I pack my lunch, nine times out of ten he will swap my entire lunch for something else. I am not entirely sure how he does it, because nine times out of ten I have none of the ingredients he swapped my lunch for.

It started one he came to visit me at work one day, and scowled when he noticed my half eaten peanut butter and honey sandwich. On generic, store bought bread, of course, with honey which was probably corn syrup (he informed me) and peanut butter he did not want to contemplate (he did not inform me but his silence on the matter was enough). The next time I had a lunch and he’d been over at my house, I found that my egg salad sandwich had been replaced with a caprese salad, and that my sandwich was now roast chicken, with some kind of outrageously good mustard and fresh tomato, and a small, home-made roll with real butter.

It’s been going on ever sense. Probably nine months now? I don’t say anything. Neither does he. I think it gives him satisfaction to think of me eating his food. And it really does. So why complain or even bring it up? But sometimes I write him “thank you” notes in the lunches he discards. I think that pleases him too. 

 

 **Tags:** #sometimes i really love that fucker #sometimes he makes me want to smother him in his sleep with a pillow


	94. Tickle Torture

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maybe a strange question, but have you ever done anything involving tickling?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Originally posted here.](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/106440387508/maybe-a-strange-question-but-have-you-ever-done)

 

> **Maybe a strange question, but have you ever done anything involving tickling?**

 

Wow anon. What a weird ass question. I’ve never had a question as weird or weirder than that before. Never ever. Nope.

_WeEEEEeeeird._

Despite the bizarre weirdness of your weird question, I have to say: yes. Of all the kinky fuckery I have done, I have to admit that I have indeed done things involving tickling. For shame etc etc.

And, despite the fact it will get me spanked (at the very least, if not possibly skinned alive) I have to say that Hannibal is  _very_ ticklish. He puts on his grand airs, of course, but he’s incredibly, humorously ticklish. Once I snuck a quick tickle during a dinner party and he almost could not stop laughing for the rest of the evening. It was worth him being aggravated with me afterwards just to see the corners of his eyes and mouth crinkled with amusement for a few hours.

He prefers we keep the tickling to when he is my little though, and generally when he is [child Hannibal rather than teen Hannibal](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/97062529493/does-hannibal-ever-call-you-daddy) (teen Hannibal thinks he’s far too “grown up” for tickling). I have had the pleasure of spending hours “tickle torturing” child Hannibal, until he was gasping with tears in his eyes, hiccupping: “Daddy stop, Daddy!” Sometimes too we play hide and seek. I have to say that child Hannibal, though incredibly sweet and even naïve, can also be a conniving fucker and is one hell of a hider. I have found him in places that — well — I have no earthly idea how he got there in the first place. But any time I finally catch him, I yell “Gotcha!” and proceed to tickle him within an  _inch of his life_ , while he laughs and kicks and flails.

As cliché as it is to say so, it’s a kind of music, the way Hannibal — as Hannibal or child Hannibal — laughs when I tickle him. There is a depth to it; like the sound the ocean might make if it were capable of laughter.

Abigail too likes tickling. She is not as ticklish as Hannibal, but she has threatened to “cut me” if I so much as bring up the tickling. I think she believes it makes her childish. But sometimes I just lean in, just enough, my fingers grazing the soft curve of her belly, and well. There’s nothing for it. The tickling  _must_ commence. And she is anything but childish as she laughs, between thrashing and cursing at me, sometimes buffeting me with a pillow. She is wild and careless and young, yes, but beneath that the laughter seems to mask some kind of reservoir of pain and well — being too grown up too early.

Abigail is anything but a child.

Sometimes I ask her if she doesn’t want to be a little once and awhile, for obvious therapeutic reasons. She wouldn’t have to call me “Daddy”. But she always says “fuck no” and that if she wanted that she would be looking for a dad replacement in the “grossest possible way”.

I myself, though highly sensitive, am not ticklish. Alas. 

[OOC: Just so you know. Despite his capacity to type complete sentences, Will has had a fair few whiskies at this point, hence his response at the beginning.]

 

 **Tags: #** laughter is the best medicine #how many whiskey has i had #so many #wow

 

[OOC: Just so you know. Despite his capacity to type complete sentences, Will has had a fair few whiskies at this point, hence his response at the beginning.]

 

 


	95. Happy Fucking New Year

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will's year doesn't start out that well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Originally posted here.](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/106831492208/well-happy-fucking-new-year)

I'm in the hospital. 

I'm not hurt. Hannibal is, but it looks like he's going to be okay. 

[ .Gif of Will looking distraught and rubbing his face with his hands.]

Suffice to say, this is  _not_ how I wanted to start the year. 

* * *

 

[OOC: The askbox will open tomorrow morning starting at 10 am MST, for the [Saturday Q and A questions](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/106355092223/twinkyempath-q-and-a-saturday-january-3rd-1-4)!

Also because I am evil you won't know how Hannibal ended up in the hospital until early next week.

~~> :D~~

\- mresundance]


	96. Q and A

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Information on the next batch of asks, which were all part of a Q and A session on January 3rd. The asks in the Q and A will be marked "QA" in the upcoming chapters.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Originally posted here.](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/107031758486/q-and-a-time)

**[OOC: The Q and A has begun!**

For my part, I am pretending Hannibal, Will, and Abigail are all chilling on my couch for this session. Hannibal seems to be . . . knitting . . . which I find somehow more disturbing than anything else I've imagined him doing. Abigail is curled up with her smartphone, pretending she is bored between taking selfies which she then deletes, and sending Will (possibily explicit) text messages which he is ignoring because his phone is perpetually on silent. 

Will, for his part, seems actually quite excited, even sociable. But then, he kind of likes having an audience for certain things. 

As for me: I am rolling around in asks like a gleeful puppy, fortified by my tea and lunch.

Just FYI: since some of these asks will be filled very quickly, with minimal editing and revision, please excuse the typos and spelling errors which will certainly occur. 

**Submitting**

The Q and A is  **January 3rd, 1-4 pm MST**  (mountain standard time).

([Click here to convert that to your time zone](http://www.timeanddate.com/worldclock/converter.html). It will probably be easiest to convert from 1 pm in Denver, Colorado, USA, to your time zone.)

Unlike the unusual ask format,  **you will be able to ask questions of Hannibal, Will, Abigail, or the mun, mresundance**.

When submitting for the Q and A address your question to the character or mun.

You probably won’t get a full on ficlet out of your asks, but your  **asks will be answered succinctly and promptly during the Q and A**. :)

 **Pretty much anything is kosher** , though, if you were to ask Hannibal about cooking and eating people, he would deny it while making a series of cannibal puns. Etc.  

Q and A asks will be answered during the Q and A time, **and will be accepted until 3 pm MST on Saturday the 3rd** , to ensure they all get answered.

\- mresundance]


	97. QA: The Cold Shoulder

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hey Hannibal, What did the cannibal get when he was late to dinner?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Originally posted here.](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/107032040906/hey-hannibal-what-did-the-cannibal-get-when-he)

> **elephantparade asks: Hey Hannibal, What did the cannibal get when he was late to dinner? THE COLD SHOULDER （≧∇≦)**

****

[.Gif of Hannibal smiling, genuinely amused.]

 **Hannibal:** Very clever.

 **Will:** Great, you just gave him yet another awful joke that I will have to endure in the future. 


	98. QA: A Whore is a Whore is a Whore

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will how do you feel about the act that Hannibal is wealthier than you?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Originally posted here.](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/107032471516/will-how-do-you-feel-about-the-act-that-hannibal)

[OOC: Well, this didn’t go as I had planned. It never does. This is longer because it was submitted on Friday and I just sat down and started writing it. 

Warnings for: rough sex, face fucking, humiliation, and a tense change.]

* * *

 

> **Anonymous asks: Will how do you feel about the act that Hannibal is wealthier than you?**

 

**Will:**

Like I have a  _sugar daddy._

The kind who takes me out to a nice meal and then takes me home and uses his expensive ties to tie me up before he rims me and fucks me into orgasmic oblivion. 

But  _honestly_ it’s not a bone of contention between us. I won’t let Hannibal pay for dates because I’m not some kind of fucking charity case and I can afford my portion when we go out for an evening. The only reason that I really don’t find him insufferable (as I do many of his wealthy peers) is that Hannibal really understands privation, [which I discussed a little in this post](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/98985517698/whats-the-worst-punishment-youve-ever-had). I won’t bore you now by rehashing the same details.

Really the only … unusual, or odd thing about it is that it has provided fodder for roleplay. We developed the classic wealthy-gentleman-picks-up-rent-boy scenario, wherein Hannibal will dress up in something nice, but not  _too_ nice, and then I will pick him up. He could be in a restaurant or a mall of some kind. We arrange the location and time and I pick him up, drive him to his house in his Bentley, and I lavish him as if I were a handsome, distinguished, moneyed gentleman who would pay for sex. I will dress up, of course, so I look the part, shave and style my unruly hair. Last time I wore a pair of dark wool slacks, freshly pressed, a black cashmere sweater, and a dark blue dress shirt beneath that, which, according to Hannibal, makes my eyes “all the more radiant”.

I took him inside and served him wine, which he declined as he always does, because he plays his role well too. The role of a whore. He’s full of flirtation and languor, but beneath that is an edginess to him, an alertness which is primed for danger. So naturally he declines the wine, because you don’t take wine from strange, handsome men who you’ve just met and who have brought you into their lavish home.  Not matter how nice such men may seem, with their cherubic pink lips and cheeks, and their supposedly magnanimous manner.

That last time, I had him up in his bedroom, as if we had not fucked each other there hundreds of times before.

“Such a pretty little whore,” I said, running my cock over his lips, leaving a sleek trail of precum. He licked it off, eyes dark and soft with lust. 

"An expensive whore,” I added, nodding towards the bills in his coat pocket. He’d gone to the bathroom and counted them all neatly, as if he really were an escort, and as if he hadn’t given me the bills in the first place to then give to him for our game. 

"And a little old," I added. I also wanted to say he was stunning, nonetheless, but that would have broken the scene. But he was: kneeling before me, naked except for his socks and sock suspenders, both stark against his pale skin, his hair just a little messy and fallen into his eyes. Just the right edge of wanton-ness and class.

He batted his lashes at me in a way that I would never, ever see him do outside of this context. 

"Age equals experience. And I will make it worth your money, sir," he purred, his voice just a little bit higher, cloying like an overly sweet dessert wine. It shouldn’t have made my dick throb, but it did. So did the way he opened his mouth and slid down, lips warm and firm on my shaft. 

"Fuck," I whispered. 

I let him suck me for awhile before he trailed his tongue and lips along the underside of my shaft and taking one of my balls into his mouth. I almost let him finish me there, his tongue and lips making warm, red and white circles of pleasure. 

"No," I told him, tugging at his hair.  "Go lay on the bed with your whore mouth open for me."

And because he knew I loved this — it made me hard just thinking about it — he smiled a little before releasing me and going to the bed. As he laid down, his long, lean body unfurled for me and I felt pain — pure desire — welling inside me like a bruise. Agony as he let his head fall back over the edge, and he opened his mouth for me. 

I cupped his chin, his throat. At first I was slow, savoring the hot, wet slide of my cock into his mouth, the way I could feel my cock moving beneath the skin and sinew and muscle of his throat. And then I was not slow. Not at all. 

There is always some point that I seem to just — snap — here. When he is laid out beneath me. When I recall the way the soft calluses of his hands felt as I pressed the money into his hands and pretended to invite this alluring pretend stranger to my pretend house. How exciting, the anticipation of watching him strip for me; of seeing his whole facade of wealth and elegance undone, layer by layer, until he is this: nothing but an aging rent boy taking my dick as deep and hard as it pleases me. 

And oh, it pleased me, burying myself deep in his mouth, listening and feeling him gag around me. Oh, oh, oh, it pleased me so very much to see his own erection hardening all the more in response, his glans nearly violet by the time I pulled out and came on his face. 

"Beautiful," I said as he licked cum off his lips and smiled once more. A glittering smile, half murderous. Because Hannibal loathes when I come on his face.

I kissed him then and the scene ended for awhile. He never kisses when he plays whore. I tasted myself on him and he looked ruined: his eyes watering, his nose running, his lips violently red, his face smeared with cum. Smeared with me; I, his ruiner.

Later we would play some more and I would have him again, this time with him on his hands and knees and begging me to  _stop, please, sir, no_. 

He’s  _not_  that kind of whore, apparently. 

But I told him: a whore is a whore is a whore, and once I’ve paid, he was mine to do with as I pleased. 


	99. QA: The Hokey Pokey

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hannibal, Do you dance the hokey pokey?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Originally posted here.](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/107033369091/qa-hannibal-do-you-dance-the-hokey-pokey-there)

> **kinneykid asks: QA Hannibal, Do you dance the hokey pokey? There have been rumors circulating.**

 

[.Gif of Hannibal pursing and licking his lips in a very displeased manner.]

 

 **Hannibal:** I am not quite certain where these  _detestable_ rumors began nor where they are circulating, but I assure you, I do  _not_ do “the hokey pokey”. 

 **Will:**  Except when you are a little drunk while cooking. 

 **Hannibal:**  I do not drink to excess when I cook. I wouldn’t risk ruining the food like that. 

 **Abigail:**  You were a little loaded that one time.

 **Hannibal:**  A single incident is  _not_ a pattern.

 **Will:** "Single incident"?

 **Hannibal:**  I will not dignify that with an answer.


	100. QA: Too Swank for Tumblr

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mun, Have you considered starting a blog for Hannibal's exploits, because you're not busy enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Originally posted here.](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/107033750855/qa-mun-have-you-considered-starting-a-blog-for)

> **kinneykid asks: QA Mun, Have you considered starting a blog for Hannibal's exploits, because you're not busy enough.**

 

[.Gif of David Tennant as the Doctor shaking his head. Nope, nope, nope.]

 

 **mresundance:** Oh god  _no._ First: I don’t think my Hannibal would “stoop” so low as to try and have a blog, much less a  _Tumblr._ Second,  _oh hell no, ain’t nobody got time for that._

(Hey nothing wrong with Tumblr, obviously, I just think he wouldn’t get it in some ways. The chaos and mess of Tumblr as a blog and a community would be just too much for Hannibal. If he had a blog it would be some fancy wordpress site, or, a Twitter so he could tweet cannibal puns.)


	101. QA: Funny French

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will, Ever throw out any more funny French?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Originally posted here.](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/107034165928/qa-will-ever-throw-out-any-more-funny-french)

[OOC: The question is in reference to [this post](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/94440339953/hi-will-you-talk-about-super-serious-sexy-sex), or chapter 34 here.]

Will is speaking Cajun.]

 

* * *

 

>   **kinneykid asks: QA Will, Ever throw out any more funny French?**

 

 **Will:**  As my Grandmother used to say: “Mais, jamais d’la vie!”

 **Hannibal:** "Not in my life"?

 **Will:** Something like that. She used to say it every time she came in and found I’d done something naughty. 

 **Hannibal:**  Oh. Is that what she said  when she walked in on you at that reunion? The one where you were with … was it your second or first cousin?

 **Will:**   _Arrete toi._

 **Hannibal:**  Will, it  _is_  fairly normal for adolescents to experiment … 

 **Will:** … I didn’t  _know_  he was my cousin until Mawmaw yelled at us. 

 **Abigail:**  At a family reunion?

 **Will:** It’s not like you’re cousins with  _everybody_ at those things!

 **Hannibal:**  *clears throat*

 **Abigail:**  It was in the South, Will.

 **Will:**  There wasn’t any danger of actual fornication! We were just making out and groping!

 **Will:**  … the both of you can stop looking at me like that. 


	102. QA: Romantic Gang-bang Orgy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hannibal, Have you set up that gangbang orgy Will so craves?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Originally posted here.](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/107034583818/qa-hannibal-have-you-set-up-that-gangbang-orgy)

[OOC: The post this question references [is yonder](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/94357774933/homoette-submitted-ever-been-to-an-orgy-will), or, chapter 27 here.]

 

* * *

 

 

> **kinneykid asks: QA Hannibal, Have you set up that gangbang orgy Will so craves?**

 

 **Hannibal:**  The arrangements have been ongoing for a few months now. 

 **Will:**  Wait, what? Are you  _serious_?

 **Hannibal:**  Of course. But it takes time and consideration to arrange these types of things. Properly, I mean. I’ve been screening applicants and the pool is almost complete, each applicant medically and psychologically sound according to my criteria. The venue has been booked as well. 

 **Will:** You seriously have already arranged a gang-bang orgy?  _For me_?

 **Hannibal:**  Yes, Will.

 **Will:**  Why didn’t you say?

 **Hannibal:**  I was hoping to keep it a surprise for you. Though neither of us is overly romantic or sentimental, it is planned for Valentine’s Day this year. Unless of course you don’t —

 **Will:** That is almost the most romantic thing you’ve ever done for me. 

 **Hannibal:**  I thought you might be pleased.

 **Will:**   _Pleased_? I am about to pop a boner right now just thinking about it. 

 **Hannibal:**  …  _Will.  
_

 **Will:** Oh let them watch,  _cher._ You know I like being watched. 

 **Hannibal:**  That you do. 

 

 **Tags: #** and later #cher #i will take you #with my mouth #slowly #looking up at you #as i swallow you #and lick you #watching your face as i take you apart #as you come while i stroke you #slowly still #your cock thick and throbbing and wet in my hand #your cum thick and warm on my chest #let them watch cher #let them see what i do to you


	103. QA: Blood On Your Hands Again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Abigail, Who was your first?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Originally posted here.](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/107035010664/qa-abigail-who-was-your-first-eyeballs-will)

[OOC: Top is obviously the character’s answer. Bottom, in italics, is a little more details Abigail won’t share.

Warnings for a bit of blood and pain?]

 

* * *

 

> **kinneykid asks: QA Abigail, Who was your first? *eyeballs Will curiously***

 

[.Gif of Abigail smirking, as if she is about to laugh.]

 

 **Will:**  You don’t have to answer that. 

 **Abigail:**  It’s fine. 

Yes. Yes he was. 

* * *

_Three freakin’ months Will Graham. Three freakin’ months. You weren’t going to marry me, you weren’t going to take me to the prom or meet my parents any time soon (har har har) so really — three freakin’ months?_

_I guess I’m not normal. I guess most girls want a guy who will make out with them like they are fine and delicate as a spider’s web. Or will ask before taking off their clothes. Or they want a guy who will spend a whole afternoon happily eating them out without expecting anything in return._

_It’s not that I didn’t appreciate it, but after three freakin’ months of the worlds slooooooooowest and loooooongest foreplay, I just wanted actual sex. I didn’t want to hear another “lecture” about how sex is not just “penetrative” (yuck, could you sound more like a High School Sex Ed teacher?). I just did. Because I’m not delicate, I stopped being a child a long time ago. I know I said I wanted to get it over, that I didn’t want to be a virgin going to college, but it was mostly because I wanted it._

_So when I got tired of waiting around for you, Will freakin’ Graham, I snuck up on you in your kitchen and grabbed your butt. It was a warm, sunny day, and it almost felt like summer — finally! — after that long, miserable winter. Stuck in that crazy people hospital. Thinking about my parents every day and hating them and loving them. Stuck with you and Hannibal and hating you both and loving you both too, because what else did I have to do?_

_Everything was so white and cold and blank that winter. But then, you sucked blood off my thumb one icy day when I pricked my finger on one of your lures. Game over. Your lips around my thumb, wet and warm. Your eyes looking up at me, wide and so blue. Hannibal looking at us like he had discovered something new and amazing._

_Everything began to come back to me then, that second time you tasted my blood. The world began to have color and sounds again. I began to sleep through the whole night. Some days I forgot to even think about my dead parents._

_It was all really over long before I got you into bed and told you I wanted to. No, I didn’t want to be on top to control things. No, I wanted you inside me, deeper than you’d already been, what with killing my dad and my blood all over you. I wanted one clean, hard thrust and the sound of my voice faraway like it wasn’t part of my body, part of me._

_I lied when I said there wasn’t much pain. I lied because you’d been so tender, and slow, and I was relaxed as I could be. Your mouth. Your tongue. _One fingers, two fingers._ But I still bled. You fretted like a little old man about it, your face all dour and raisin-y. I wanted to kiss you so I did. _

_But the pain that first time was like a knife._

_I wanted that._

_And the spots of blood on both our bodies._

_My blood on your hands._

_Third time’s the charm they say._

_* * *_

[OOC: On a footnote: I really hate virginity tropes, especially the one where “loss” of virginity equals blood and pain, but it was appropriate for the character. I expect we will learn more about Abigail’s penchant for blood in the coming months.]


	104. QA: No Such Relations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hannibal, Have you and Abigail ever had any sexual relations?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Originally posted here.](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/107035471437/qa-hannibal-have-you-and-abigail-ever-had-any)

> **kinneykid asks: QA Hannibal, Have you and Abigail ever had any sexual relations?**

 

 

** **

 

[.Gif of Abigail looking disgusted.]

 

**Abigail:** _Gross._

**Hannibal:**  Yes, I have to echo Abigail’s sentiment, as indelicate as her own response was. Outside of instructing her and supervising her a few times as she experimented with dominating Will, I have not had any such relations with her. 


	105. QA: Throwing Off the Paternal Mantel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hannibal, Do you still think of Abigail in a paternal way or has that ship sailed?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Originally posted here.](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/107035888581/qa-hannibal-do-you-still-think-of-abigail-in-a)

> **kinneykid asks: QA Hannibal, Do you still think of Abigail in a paternal way or has that ship sailed?**

 

 **Hannibal:** I am of course, very  … fond of Abigail at times. 

 **Abigail:**  *rolls her eyes*

 **Hannibal:** But she has loudly and consistently expressed the desire, of late, to be treated like an adult. So I as … reluctant I may be to throw off the paternal mantel, if that is what she wants, I must endeavor to respect that.

 **Abigail:**  *rolling her eyes again*


	106. QA: Cannot be Undone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hannibal, What possessed you to suggest Will and Abigail have a tryst?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Originally posted here.](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/107036297554/qa-hannibal-what-possessed-you-to-suggest-will)

> **kinneykid asks: QA Hannibal, What possessed you to suggest Will and Abigail have a tryst?**

 

 **Hannibal:** I have to admit that I may have … misjudged on the point of suggesting such a thing. At the time I thought it might be a beneficial arrangement to all parties involved. But hindsight, as they say … and what has already been done cannot be undone, however much we may wish otherwise. 


	107. QA: Not Yet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will, Have you accepted the collar?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Originally posted here.](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/107036971913/qa-will-have-you-accepted-the-collar)

[OOC: The ask in reference to [this post](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/106153946393/ooc-christmas-timestamp-warnings-for), or, chapter 89 here.]

 

* * *

 

> **kinneykid asks: QA Will, Have you accepted the collar?**

 

[.Gif of Will sighing and the looking away, as if he can't really deal with the question.]

 

 **Will:** No I have not yet.


	108. QA: Joke's On Him

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Abigail, How do you feel about the rift your presence is causing between Will and Hannibal?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Originally posted here.](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/107038035763/qa-abigail-how-do-you-feel-about-the-rift-your)

[OOC: This ask is in reference to these posts ([one](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/105708371743/the-light-of-a-million-years), [two](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/105714482328/mindpalace2k15-it-appears-first-in-the), [three](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/105987422203/the-days-we-met-ooc-stuff-that-has-gone-on), [four](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/106153946393/ooc-christmas-timestamp-warnings-for)), or chapters 81, 82, 86, and 89 here.]

 

* * *

 

> **kinneykid asks: QA Abigail, How do you feel about the rift your presence is causing between Will and Hannibal?**

 

 **Will:**  You definitely do  _not_ have to answer that. Abigail hasn’t caused anything of the sort. What happens between me and Hannibal is about us. It has nothing to do with her. There are things we have to — figure out — that have nothing to do with Abigail.

 **Abigail:** Are you  _done_?

 **Will:** What? Yes. Why?

 **Abigail:**  Because I can actually answer for myself.

 **Will:** Sorry.

 

[.Gif of Abigal looking pretty angry.]

 

 **Abigail:** Look, I am not Will’s — girlfriend or anything. I’ve been really clear about that. And sometimes Hannibal likes things the way he likes them and doesn’t seem to give a shit about how other people would like things. Sometimes he gets ideas in his head that things are a certain way and they aren’t. I lived with my crazy dad long enough to know there’s nothing I can do about it when people are like that. It’s not on me, really. If Hannibal wants to be pissy and jealous there isn’t much I can do. 

But the joke’s on him, because I’ve never seen someone more lovesick than Will is for him. High School girls don’t have  _anything_  on Will Graham and his ability to pine after Hannibal Lecter. 


	109. QA: Torturing Readers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What has happened to Hannibal?!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Originally posed here.](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/107038421573/qa-mun-do-you-enjoy-torturing-your-readers-what)

>   
> **kinneykid asks: QA Mun, Do you enjoy torturing your readers? What has happened to Hannibal?!**

 

[The ask is in response to [this post](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/106831492208/well-happy-fucking-new-year), or chapter 92 here.]

[.Gif Maleficent looking downcast, and then smiling wickedly.]

 

**mresundance:** Torture?  _Moi_? Surely not. 

I usually hate cliffhangers, but sometimes it’s a terrific way to engage an audience. 

I can’t say much about what has happened to Hannibal. Suffice to say he suffered an _accident_ , which is in no small way his doing on some levels.


	110. QA: Nip Nops

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hannibal, please tell us about Will's nip nops and your opinion of them. *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Originally posted here.](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/107039106133/hannibal-please-tell-us-about-wills-nip-nops-and)

 

> **memorypalaceofwillgraham asks: Hannibal, please tell us about Will's nip nops and your opinion of them. *chinhands* (ps, Hannibal, it means "nipples" just so you know)**

 

 **Abigail:**  Oh my  _god_ nip nops —

 **Hannibal:** … 

 **Abigail:**  I am going to call them nip nops from now on. 

 **Hannibal:**  Yes, well. Will’s … nip nops as you call them, are very pleasing. And sensitive. It is very satisfying to stimulate them, first with the fingers. Gently, because he is remarkably sensitive, as I mentioned. When he’s become flush and moans softly for me, then I know I can employ the careful use of my lips and tongue. And when he has begin to arch and knot his fingers through my hair, I apply pressure with my teeth. 

Sometimes, I have been able to make him orgasm like this. 

 

[.Gif of Hannibal drinking wine while looking exceedingly pleased and smug.]

 

 **Abigail:** _Damn._


	111. QA: Really Fucked Up Stuff I Needed to Write

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mun, What ultimately inspired you to start this blog, other than Hugh Dancy's sexiness?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Originally posted here.](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/107040815723/qa-mun-what-ultimately-inspired-you-to-start)

>   **kinneykid asks: QA Mun, What ultimately inspired you to start this blog, other than Hugh Dancy's sexiness?**
> 
> **[Text of the second ask, which is a screencap: memorypalacefwillgraham asks: Questions for the mun! What first inspired you to start up this blog? Would you consider it a rewarding experience? And what has been your favorite post? Thank! I love this blog (as you know ;D) <3]**

 

 **mresundance:** Two for the price of one! :D

THANK BOTH, first off. 

Well, I started this blog because a) a love of Hannibal fandom b) I wanted to write something but I wasn’t sure what. 

The last couple years I’ve had were super rough and super depressing. It’s in the past, thankfully, but I was so depressed I wasn’t even writing for awhile. I just really needed … to try something new and to explore what made me write in the first place. 

Hannibal fandom really helped me last year to find my feet, to feel hopeful and better about things in general, and to be okay writing some really fucked up stuff that I needed to write. :P (Hey, I didn’t know I could write stuff that was this fucked up, but I have strangely never felt better about my writing.)

So uh, I started this blog and [memorypalaceofwillgraham](http://tmblr.co/mwx-H928JXJxZ4EK3g02ceg) once sent an ask that I answered as Will (or Will answered) and it just went from there. 

It has been a very rewarding experience. I’ve learned a lot, I’ve written more than I thought I could in a short  period of time, and I’m having a blast playing with a live audience. 

I don’t really have a favorite post, though, [I did really like the post about waxing because the structure](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/105708371743/the-light-of-a-million-years) (chapter 78) visually lays out how Will is caught between two people. I fucking love it when structure can compliment content like that. 


	112. QA: No Thanks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Abigail, What's your major?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Originally posted here.](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/107045316648/qa-abigail-whats-your-major)

> **kinneykid asks: QA Abigail, What's your major?**

 

**Abigail:** A very captivating associates of science. I’m going to a community college and then probably transferring to a four year program in either counseling or forensics. 

Will insists that I should go to veterinary school. I tell him I’ve had my fill of dogs with him, so no thanks. 


	113. QA: The "F" Word

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will: Adopted any new dogs lately? :)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Originally posted here.](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/107047631623/will-how-are-your-dogs-adopted-any-new-dogs)

> **memorypalaceofwillgraham asks: Will: How are your dogs? Adopted any new dogs lately? :) (just tell us all about your dogs, please)**

 

**Abigail:**  Oh  _no._

**Hannibal:** *unhappy cannibal noises*

**Will:** But guys this is like the best question ever. 

**Abigail:** We are going to be here  _all night._

**Will:** No we won’t.

**Abigail:**  Is he getting out the photo album? 

**Abigail:**  Oh god it’s the [slide projector](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Slide_projector). 

**Will:**  I have a lot of pictures of dogs from my childhood that I never digitized. 

**Hannibal:** Will, I  _do_ have to start dinner at some point this evening. 

**mresundance:**  *deploying the teacher voice he uses to soothe neurotic and anxious students* Maybe we could talk about the  _new_ dog, Will?

**Will:** Well, oh. Okay.

**Abigail:**   _Thank god._  

**Hannibal:**  *pleased cannibal noises*

**Will:** The new dog is Henry. 

 

[Image of a dog's face. He is a golden retriever with bright, amber brown eyes, and golden, sandy colored fur. His face is cut off at the nose in the picture. He is half draped in someone's lap. He looks like a sweet dog.]

 

**Will:**  He’s a golden. I found him —

**Abigail:**  “Found”.

**Hannibal:**  He does use that term very loosely when it comes to his dogs.

**Will:**  I  _found_ him after a fishing trip, without any collar or tags on him. 

**Abigail:**  What was that collar I found in the trashcan then? Yours?

**Will:**  Can I talk about the dog or not?

**Will:**  Okay. So Henry is a big goofy golden retriever, and he slobbers on everything, and likes to stick his nose in your lap to get pets. And he  _loves_ to play —

**Abigail:**  NOT THE “F” WORD WILL.

**Will:**  —  _frisbee._  

[A ninety-one pound golden retriever leaps onto the couch, disrupting Hannibal and Abigail. The dog’s tail is a windmill whirring through the air as he licks and snorts and romps and causes a general ruckus.]

**Abigail:** You had to say the “f” word. 

**Will:** *wrestling with the dog* Who’s a good boy? Who’s a good puppy?

 

[OOC: Yes, the dog’s actual name is Henry. He is currently my mother’s dog, but he belonged to my family in general when we first got him.]


	114. QA: Divine Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will and Hannibal: What has been the most frustrating experience of your relationship with each other? Conversely, what has been the most rewarding?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Originally posted here.](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/107050021943/questions-for-both-will-and-hannibal-what-has)

>   **memorypalaceofwillgraham asks: Questions for both Will and Hannibal: What has been the most frustrating experience of your relationship with each other? Conversely, what has been the most rewarding? (yes, these are very open-ended questions)**

 

[.Gif of Will and Hannibal together. Both look a little surprised, like the question has taken them a little off-guard.]

 

**Will:** You go first, or should I?

**Hannibal:**  You first, please. 

**Will:**  Okay. I think for me the most frustrating thing has been what Abigail astutely noted earlier: that sometimes Hannibal gets an idea in his head and he wants things to be  _just so_ and … well things are not always the way he wants it to be. And that’s really frustrating some times. 

**Hannibal:** How so?

**Will:** Well, you can’t tell me that when something didn’t go exactly right with that salad one time that the  _whole meal_ was ruined —

**Hannibal:** We have a difference in opinion on that —

**Will:** You could have put some croutons on it and it would have been fine and no one would have noticed. Oh don’t shake your head at me like that. You know it’s true, somewhere in that labyrinth of your mind. Anyways, he does things like that all time. [Like springing the collar](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/106153946393/ooc-christmas-timestamp-warnings-for) [chapter 86] on me [without even talking about it](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/107136448138/ooc-will-finally-has-an-answer-about-the-collar). You just want something and you didn’t even stop to consider maybe talking to me about it first? But no, you just have an idea in your head of what everything is going to be and it shall be so. 

**Hannibal:** Are you quite finished?

**Will:** Yes.

**Hannibal:** For my part it’s never being sure about Will’s affections and his … true heart. I find myself entertaining  … doubts. As a psychiatrist I know there is no rational reason for my doubts. Will has always been true to me. And forthright. And if he says he needs more time for something … then I have no reason to believe that there is anything else there but what he has expressed. But I still have a … fear, you could say. An uncertainty about his devotion to me. I suppose it reflects in things like my behavior about — wanting things “just so” — as he puts it. 

**Will:** For such a brilliant man you really are profoundly stupid sometimes. 

**Hannibal:**  You well know that fears are not always rational, Will.

[Silence]

**Will:**  Okay. Good things then?

**Hannibal:**  Yes, I think so.

**Will:** *taking Hannibal’s hand in his own* The most rewarding thing is being seen and known in such a profound and complete way that … I usually don’t have words for it or the ability to really deal with it. Not wholly. It’s like — what was that we were talking about, with the different types of love, in ancient Greece?

**Hannibal:**  Agape. 

**Will:**  Yes, agape. 

**Hannibal:**  The love man has for god, and god for man. Or divine love. 

**Will:**  Yes. Like when Rumi looked at Shams and said: “that’s it, that’s the guy, that’s my whole heart, my whole life, my whole love”. Go ahead and laugh, but. 

**Hannibal:** Yes, I know what you mean.


	115. QA: Hypothetically

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hypothetically if a partner were a murderous criminal and the FBI was on to them, would you give them a heads up or let them go down?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Originally posted here.](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/107055925343/qa-will-hypothetically-if-a-partner-were-a)

> **kinneykid asks: QA Will, Hypothetically if a partner were a murderous criminal and the FBI was on to them, would you give them a heads up or let them go down? Hypothetically, of course.**

 

[Gif of Will turning his head away from the viewer as he smirks. He might be suppressing a laugh.]

 

**Will:** So long as we are entertaining purely  _hypothetical_ situations: I would have to say I would  _not_  give them a heads up, nor let them go down.  _  
_

Because, hypothetically speaking, there  _might_ be some incriminating evidence implicating me, if I were the partner of said hypothetical murderous criminal.

But mostly: I would never abandon a partner. 

Besides, who better to help a hypothetical murderous criminal partner escape, than a trained law enforcement professional?

No, I would be going with them.  _Hypothetically_ , of course. 


	116. QA: Visiting the Neighbors

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will, Hannibal & Abigail, Have you finally visited the neighbors?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Originally posted here.](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/107055934663/qa-will-hannibal-abigail-have-you-finally)

> **kinneykid asks: QA, Will, Hannibal & Abigail, Have you finally visited the neighbors?**

 

**Will:** No we have not, but, we have been — nudging Hannibal to send an invitation. 

 

[OOC: The neighbors in question are the residents of [mindpalace2k15](http://tmblr.co/mPL_3rmsxR-GxVS3anu61wg), and yup, there will be some crossover antics coming up in the next couple months! ;) Their posts are chapters are 75, 76, 79, and 82.]

 


	117. QA: The Blade Dancing Over My Flesh

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will, You once mentioned Hannibal shaving you with a straight razor, please elaborate?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Originally posted here.](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/107059882733/qa-will-you-once-mentioned-hannibal-shaving-you)

[OOC: This ask is in reference to [this post](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/93772932213/is-there-anything-absolutely-guaranteed-to-turn), chapter 9.]

UNF. Straight razor shaves and proper shaving. UNF. I’ll be in my bunk later.]

 

* * *

 

> **kinneykid asks: QA Will, You once mentioned Hannibal shaving you with a straight razor, please elaborate?**

 

**Will:**

Well, sometimes Hannibal enjoys pampering me, and one way he pampers me is by giving me a shave with a straight razor, which, he personally uses from time to time. He says it cuts closest, but it also allows for one to indulge in the “lost art” of shaving, and shaving _properly,_ according to Hannibal.

I have to say this indulgence is well worth it and I’m tempted sometimes to forgo my plastic razors and cheap shaving cream in favor of the straight razor. I don’t simply because I wouldn’t find the time every morning.

But, the gist: it begins, always, with a slow head and neck message. His fingers working the sore muscles of my scalp and my shoulders, until I feel myself begin to loosen beneath his strong, utterly masterful hands.

The towel is always warm and damp as he places it over my face and chin, smelling sometimes of clove, sometimes of sage. And then, once my skin is softened and tender, he rubs the shave oil into my beard stubble. He uses lavender with me, because is calming and says it “suits me”, though I prefer sandalwood. He also says the root of the lavender is poisonous, so the plant must always be used with caution.

Once the oil has soaked in, he can apply the shaving cream. Thick luxuriant stuff. It makes a fine lather.

The blade he uses, always remarkably bone white in his bathroom light, and always so sharp. All it would take is one careless flick of that blade, and he could slice down through the sinew and tendon and muscle of my throat like butter. At least, I like to think so, before he reverently makes the first cut. Over my adam’s apple, under my chin. The blade dancing over my flesh. His hands on my throat, my cheeks, my lips. And then wiping my face clean, this time with a cold damp cloth, and rubbing the aftershave lotion into my skin. Lavender again, but sometimes mint, the sting making my face sing as he bends down and gently kisses my lips.

Ah yes.

Ah, yes.  


	118. QA: Coaxing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Abigail...has Will convinced you to enjoy fly fishing yet?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Originally posted here.](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/107061085883/abigail-has-will-convinced-you-to-enjoy-fly)

> **memorypalaceofwillgraham asks: Abigail...has Will convinced you to enjoy fly fishing yet?**

 

[.Gif of Abigail and Will, from a distance, fishing.]

 

**Abigail:**   _Weeeell,_ yeah, he did. But it took some coaxing.

**Will:** Try a lot. Try coaxing you with my tongue until I couldn’t even feel the tip of it anymore.

**Abigail:** _Hmmm,_ poor Will. I am sure I made it up to you, though?

**Will:**  You did catch one of the biggest trout all season. 

**Abigail:**   … that’s a really bad metaphor, even for you. 

**Will:**  I - I wasn’t speaking metaphorically. I was actually really pleased with your trout. 

**Abigail:**  Ah.  _Oh._  Okay then. 


	119. QA: The Ideal Pussy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will, So we have the ideal penis, please give us the ideal pussy?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Originally posted here.](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/107061642508/qa-will-so-we-have-the-ideal-penis-please-give)

[OOC: LAST Q AND A ASK, YAY!

The post referred to, re: the ideal penis, [is one of the very first](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/93710531718/describe-your-ideal-penis-for-us-please), aka, chapter 1 here.

I think Will's feelings for Abigail very much color his answer.]

 

* * *

 

>   **kinneykid asks: QA Will, So we have the ideal penis, please give us the ideal pussy?**

 

[.Gif of Will Graham, from profile. He is lying down and his eyes are closed. His face is illuminated in a faint blue light. He is licking his lips and swallowing.]

 

**Will:**

Salt.

Her stomach, dark or pale, fanned out like a beach. Stretch marks like the ripples the waves left when they receded. Veins like a river delta. Her breath like the sound of the ocean waves as the tide flows in. The ideal pussy is so wet, and warm, her cum acrid and sweet as the salty ocean water. The ideal pussy shudders as she moans, as I suck her nipples and rub my fingers over her vulva. The ideal pussy is four lips, some pink, some brown, some red, but all wet and succulent as I kiss and suck them, as I flick my tongue over them. The clitoris hard against my lips and tongue as I suck, slowly, at first, and then harder, faster, my tongue just brushing back and forth across the head. The ideal pussy throbs, rhythmically, first around my tongue, then my fingers. And sometimes the ideal pussy is so swollen and wet that I can feel her pulse when I rub the head of my cock slowly over her, feel her getting me wet. It’s a pulse like a wave gathering, coming into shore as I sink down into her, as I feel her enfold me, her pussy grasping me, hot and fast and hard.

It is not an easy embrace.

And when she comes, it’s the wave crashing down, violent enough to snap my neck as if it were a mere twig. It’s the blackest depths of the ocean as I shudder into her, and she around me, clenching with her whole body, her nails digging bloody trails into my flanks. And then her slow, slow smile of recognition. Of power. As I slouch over her, emptied, weakened. As I try to draw her close and find solace, draw strength.

That, to me, is the ideal pussy. 


	120. Yes, No, Maybe

[OOC: Will finally has an answer about [the collar Hannibal offered on Christmas](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/106153946393/ooc-christmas-timestamp-warnings-for) (chapter 89).

With much thanks to [warpedchyld](http://tmblr.co/mlebS9_apDBOYl0jM3N3ADg) for betaing and offering some really invaluable suggestions to make this better and clearer. :3]

* * *

**Yes, No, Maybe**

 

**December 30, 2014**

**Will**

_It's not that I don't care, or feel any kind of spite (like old blood on the back of the tongue, brittle and stale), or even restlessness (white and burning, like too much cold air and sunlight). It's more just that I -- I don't know. Anemic is the word, I think, while I stir my coffee and ignore Hannibal's ring tone. Too much sugar so it tastes like tin, like regret._

_The metal beneath my fingers had been cool and solid as a knife. Not fickle and fragile like flesh. The collar had been beautiful. I have to admit that much, even to myself. I had imagined myself putting it on -- his hand holding it in place against my throat while he snapped it on with the other. I've been trying to imagine what it would feel like; the weight of it beneath my clothes during a lecture, or driving to and from work, or standing in the checkout line at the store or the bank. Would it warm to my body so that it would feel more like his own hand around my throat, solid and assuring and controlling? Or would it just feel -- heavy and cold? Apart from me and distant?_

_The phone chirps again. It's too early for this shit. It's too late for this shit. I'm still in my underwear and bathrobe and I've let the fire burn too low, and Hannibal would tsk at my meager breakfast of crackers and coffee. I answer this time, and not because he will punish me more if I keep ignoring him, but because even if I don't feel like it right now, I can't run away from this. From him, from us._

_"Hannibal," I say and suddenly it feels like a lot. These past nights that I've been sweating, and tossing and turning again. Imagining blood on my hands. In my mouth._

_"You worried me Will," he says stiffly, poorly concealing his anger. "You said you would tell me in a few days. It's been nearly a week."_

_I shrug. "I needed time," I say and it's the truth. I know it is because it is not all that comforting._

_"Have you thought about it then?"_

_I shrug. "Yes."_

_There's a pause while he waits for me, a pause like carefully balancing a knife._

_"I need more time," I sigh. I hate myself._

_Because if I say "yes" it means: yes of course, yes I will, yes. Yes means more. Yes means cold nights and bloody handfuls of flesh and kisses and fucking. Yes means growing hard when I look at pictures of his work, my cock thick and aching in minutes. Yes means twining together with him in bed, smelling the echo of blood on our bodies. Yes means more[Clark Ingrams](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/99406379308/whats-the-hardest-youve-ever-have-been-with) [chapter 61] and more beautiful, mutilated corpses we both made, together. Yes means, maybe, just maybe, staying half a step ahead of him and keeping him in check. Or. It means maybe, just maybe, forgetting myself and waking up always stained with blood or semen or both. Or coming back to myself._

_Both._

_And if I say "no" it means: our lives together suspended on a frail little thread. The possibility of leaving him. Of him gutting me because he couldn't bear me leaving. The possibility of waking up on cold, clear mornings and smelling nothing but wet dog and frosted earth. Of being alone, lonely, even, but not caring because at night I could wash my face and not feel or taste or see blood all over me. I could see myself in the mirror and think: that guy right there is pretty decent. He's not perfect but at least he's not a killer. And even if he is, at least he is not any more, or stopped enjoying it enough to quit, right? The kind of guy who you'd let your kid date, maybe, if he cut back on the drinking and wasn't a little strange and stopped clinging to strays and stopped being so well, goddamn needy._

_"Yes" was not being alone in one way; of being seen and understood, at least. And "no" was another way of not being alone; at least I could be something approaching more normal. There is a loneliness to being different which I've never entirely enjoyed._

_But both "yes" and "no" seem pathetically sad, so "maybe" is all I've got right now._

_Hannibal is silent._

_"I just . . . I need more time," I whisper. "Can't we just . . . talk about this in person? I want to talk to you about it more."_

_"Not until this weekend," Hannibal says, and he sounds brusque, but I know it's masking a tremendous amount of hurt. "I have the usual influx of patients, all booking emergency appointments to address the usual trauma of the holidays."_

_"Of course," I say. "Why don't you call me when you're free?"_

_He makes a sound which is very Hannibal -- a curious mixture of pleasure and displeasure -- and I want nothing more than to tuck him against me, smell him, and tell him I love him. Always. No matter the "yeses" or "nos" or "maybes". And wasn't that enough for now? For always?_

_"Maybe I'll surprise you," he says, and he's trying to be lighthearted._

_"You always do," I say, trying to tell him what I feel through the sound of my voice alone. Probably it's not working though and I finally say: "I'll be here when you're free."_

_He hangs up after that and I'm alone and Buster has gotten into the garbage again and is nosing a slimy banana peel on the kitchen floor._

_"You little shit," I shoo Buster away, cleaning up his mess, feeling grimy and weary._

_And I start texting because it's the other thing I should be taking care of --[the question of Nicholas Boyle](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/106153946393/ooc-christmas-timestamp-warnings-for) [chapter 89] -- but also because, well, my heart skips a beat when I think of her._

_My heart doesn't skip beats with Hannibal, not the same way. And it's strange to compare my affection for both and try to place them side by side, because they don't go side by side. At all._

 

> Want to go sledding?

 

_I'm giddily pleased she texts back immediately._

 

> Can't today. Working. But tomorrow I'm off. Could meet you at Spring Hill Metro.

 

_I enjoy and endure the pleasure of waiting to reply by washing a few dishes. Like I am in high school again, young and coltish and stupid. But there's a fear mingled with this pleasure, now, that I never dreamed of as a teen. Of hurting the man I love. Of hurting this -- well, girl -- who flusters me._

 

> I could come and pick you up from work tonight. You can stay overnight if you like.

 

_It takes awhile for her to text back, so I productively jerk off because it is something to do and it does generally make me feel better._

_I think of her mouth and her tongue on me, while I was on my hands and knees on Christmas Eve. Her hand in the small of my back as she eased the strap-on into me._

_"Is this okay?"she asked, because it was the first time we'd tried this. An early Christmas present, I'd told her._

_"Yes," I said. And then later: "Harder."_

_The noises of abandon which had escaped her as she grabbed a fistful of my curls. Her hesitance giving way to short, hard thrusts. A fitful but desperate rhythm. Between gasps, I might have whimpered:_ yes,  _and_ don't stop  _and_ fuck me baby girl, fuck me.

_I think too, of his mouth on me, his firm, smooth lips dragging over the warm, hard shaft of my cock. His fingers curling inside of me. I think of the sounds he makes whenever he enters me -- helpless, as if he is praying to the god he doesn't believe in for mercy, mercy -- and the sounds he makes when he comes inside me, sounds of surrender and longing and sometimes -- hope._

_I think of them both, taking turns. Of being glutted by their bodies, their mouths, their hands. Of both of them inside me until I am so full I might rip apart._

_It's this last thought that makes me come, hard enough to feel dizzy. I shower and when I'm done, there's a new text waiting for me._

 

> Sure, why not. Come and get me. We close at 10 tonight.

 

_I don't really feel better though. Well, I do, but it's brief. The fire has gone out and the dogs are whimpering at the back door, tired of running around outside, snow stuck between their paws._

_So I let them in and they all huddle around the empty fireplace, nuzzling and crowding, while I coax the embers back._

_As the newspaper catches fire and begins to blacken and curl, I put my two lovers side by side again and think: no. You can't compare the two._

_Hannibal, to me, is the great night sky, and the silver and white arc of the Milky Way; that band of light and heat in the dark._

_Abigail, to me, is like the fire growing beneath my hands right now, bright, and hot, and living._

_And though I know enough about physics to understand that many of the stars I see are already dead, in my short human lifetime their light is as close to eternity as I can reach. Their light radiates through the dark and the emptiness of space for millions, sometimes billions of miles, before reaching me, and that is a kind of vast, unyielding comfort. The light is there and the light will always be there in my lifetime._

_But it terrifies me. I'm too small, too profane, to be allowed such a beautiful, rare thing. I'm too insignificant. And then, it is too great for me, this kind of love. It will engulf and devour and rebirth me, again and again._

_Though this love has me in thrall, is the love I've been yearning for all my life, is the love I have given every part of myself over to, I still need -- something closer to earth. Something smaller and more volatile. Hot and eager and temporal. Something which can burn me if I'm not wary._

_I  want -- I need -- both, I think. And that's the thought -- always lingering in the back of my mind, behind every kiss and touch I share with them -- that terrifies me more than I can say._

_I'm greedy._

_I am human, after all._


	121. Quid Pro Quo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"Quid pro quo though, Abigail," he says now, his breath against my throat. Straddling me and pinning my wrists over my head. "I do something to you and you tell me something. The truth."_
> 
> _I laugh. "Is this some hinky love game?"_  
>     
> "Maybe." 
> 
>    
>  Will wants the truth about Nicholas Boyle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Originally posted here.](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/107467089498/quid-pro-quo-december-31st-timestamp)

[OOC: Well this is messed up.

Warnings for: dubious consent, dark! and manipulative!Will, really fucked up sex.

Remember on Christmas Hannibal [offered Will a collar, and, spilled the beans about Abigail killing Nicholas Boyle](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/106153946393/ooc-christmas-timestamp-warnings-for) (chapter 89).

Next chapter we discover why Hannibal is in the hospital.

With much gratitude to warpedchyld on Tumblr for giving me some good ideas to make parts of this stronger.]

 

* * *

 

**December 31, 2014**

**Quid Pro Quo**

**Abigail**

_"You can tell me things, you know," he says, and he looks half hopeful and half like he just tasted something really sour._

_Way to spoil the mood, Will Graham._

_He's been quiet. He'd been quiet last night when he picked me up. I assumed he might be tired. An hour drive one way is a long drive. He does it for Hannibal all the time, but it still feels weird that he'll do it for me. It's something a boyfriend or a friend or brother or a father might do, but he's not any of those things._

_He was quiet all morning today too, even when we were having sex. We got halfway through the sledding today before he even smiled because I snuck up on him and stuffed a fistfuls of snow down the back of his jacket and sweater. He yelped and then finally laughed._

_"Reckoning!" he'd said, grabbing me around the waist and stuffing snow down my jacket and shirt._

_It had been fun; we'd both come back shivering, and had to peel out of all our wet layers. It was nice too, rubbing our bodies together to get warm, but not doing anything else, before I went and laid in his bed, wearing only one of his t-shirts and my underwear. I listened to the dogs frisking around the house, and Will humming "Hotel California" as he made the batter for hot buttered rum in the kitchen. He'd shooed the dogs out before joining me, bearing mugs of rum. Between the drink, and then his lips and body against mine, I don't remember the last time I'd been so warm, so cozy. Then just lying there, nestled against his chest, listening to the low throb of his heart._

_Yeah._

_Then he goes and spoils it. Typical, Will Graham: the ruiner._

_"You can tell me things, you know," he says, stroking my hair._

_"You're not my boyfriend," I mumble for the millionth time._

_"I know, but you can still tell me things."_

_"What_ are _you, Will Graham?" I ask him. Better to put him on the defensive. Maybe he'll forget he asked me to confide some deep dark secret or something._

_"What do you want me to be Abigail Hobbs?" he asks, still stroking my hair._

_"Fucking me," I say after a minute, rolling my hips against him. I like the sharp intake of his breathing, the way his cock begins to twitch._

_He's kind of easy. Maybe that's obvious to anyone who actually knows him, who bothers to look behind the rumpled expressions and wardrobe which is almost entirely plaid and sweaters. But he_ wants _so much and it's not just sex. I can't put my finger on it. He's the kind of guy who tells you he loves you after the first week and gets his heart broken when you laugh in his face. But what else would you expect?_

_"Don't trust boys who tell you they love you too quick," my mom said, and when she said it she'd looked towards my father, napping in his armchair._

_Will sighs._

_"I want to talk to you right now --"_

_"Uhm-hm," I say, rubbing against him. His body hot as a furnace, and he's only in a t-shirt and his underwear too. I take off his t-shirt just so I can see the expression he gets when he sees me._

_Cock hungry twink, yeah. But he sure does like my tits._

_"All right," he says after a moment, rolling me beneath him. His mouth is going to be on my lips and then my body. His mouth is pretty fucking amazing. Technically the very first time we had any kind of sex, it was him with his mouth on me._ Well, here we go _, I'd though as his head sank between my thighs. I didn't know what I expected, but I didn't expect -- well --_

_"Quid pro quo though, Abigail," he says now, his breath against my throat. Straddling me and pinning my wrists over my head. "I do something to you and you tell me something. The truth."_

_I laugh. "Is this some hinky love game?"_

_"Maybe."_

_"Do you do this shit with Hannibal?"_

_"Quid pro quo," he says. "I've never lied to you."_

_"No but you don't really talk about me either," I snap, sounding like a stupid child before I can even stop myself._

_"What's that supposed to mean?"_

_"Your fucking sex blog," I struggle but he has me, oh god, he_ has _me, and I realize he's never levied his full strength against me. That thought shouldn't make me wet._

_"You're angry I didn't talk about you?" he makes this disbelieving noise. "You don't even like talking about the details_ _of sex with me. But you want strangers --"_

_"You've been screwing around with me nearly as long as you've been with Hannibal --"_

_"I was_ protecting _you --"_

_"Or yourself. I mean, it looks really skeezy when you're fucking some virginal eighteen year old and you killed her dad."_

_His jaw tenses. But his hands don't tighten on me, and he doesn't press down on me harder._

_"I don't know why I'm angry," I say finally. "I just don't like being ignored, like, blown off."_

_"Like I'm not your boyfriend," he says. It would've hurt less if he sounded sarcastic rather than sincere._

_"I guess we're even then."_

_"I guess."_

_Still doesn't let go, but he starts rocking against me._

_"Fuck you're wet," he says._

_He's already hardening as I arch up into him. I want to run my fingers through his hair._

_"Tell me about Nicholas Boyle."_

_He's looking right at me now and I wonder if he's going to strangle me._

_"What the -- what about him? He went missing --"_

_"The truth," he says, and he stops moving._

_"I don't know the truth."_

_Will is silent. The same kind of silent my dad would get right before he went on a hunt._

_"You know I hate lying, Abigail," he says, and he holds my wrists one hand while reaching beneath the waistband of my underwear. His fingers against me._

_"Oh," I whisper as he touches me._

_He's really freaking good with his fingers. I thought it might be because I didn't know any better, I didn't have more experience, but after messing around with that big dumb jock, and that guy at that party -- well. Will_ knows _what he's doing. He's moving in slow circles, his thumb on my clit, his forefingers over my lips._

_"I killed him," I say because what else is there to say. But it's hot too, the way he pushes his fingers into me._

_"Go on," he murmurs, lips against my throat. Tongue on my scar._

_"I killed -- him --" fingers scissoring inside me. "Mmm. He. Was in the house and I was scared and he -- oh -- attacked me --"_

_"How did you kill him?"_

_Circling my clit. Yes,_ yes _._

_"Hunting knife. Gutted him," I manage as he thrusts his fingers in me and curls them._

_"Good girl," he murmurs, releasing my hands. I grab his shoulders, wrap my legs around him. I want him inside me, wrist deep. I want to devour him. We're both sweating, my underwear soaked, his cock throbbing between my legs._

_"What did you do with him then?"_

_"Hid the body," I stammer as he rolls his fingers in me, his thumb still over my clit, over and over. "Don't stop."_

_He pulls his fingers out -- I'm so fucking close that I nearly slap him. But he's yanking my underwear down, and his, and wrapping my fingers around his cock. It's hard to pay attention to stroking him as he puts his fingers back inside me though, hard because it feels so_ good _and I can't keep track of everything._

_"Did anyone -- help -- you, Abigail?" he asks, two knuckles deep while my hands wrap around him and he's twitching, he has that grimace on his face that he gets right before he comes._

_"Hannibal," I say and my whole body doubles in on itself as I come, and I hear him make a noise -- like someone has cut him open -- as he comes._

_There's something about his cum on me, or inside me. Like I'm not just some orphan, alone and abandoned. There is someone in the world who is -- connected to me. That might be why I didn't like it when he didn't talk about me much in his blog. It’s not that I want people to know; it's that he didn't say we were connected._

_"Fuck," he whispers, all heavy on top of me now._

_Silence again, but this kind is empty on his end. But shit, shit, what did I tell him --_

_He grunts and rolls off. He's looking at me, but he's not disgusted._

_"Why didn't you tell me Abigail?" he asks and he looks very sad. Hurt._

_"Hannibal said we shouldn't."_

_I pull a bed sheet over myself because I just feel -- gross. Ashamed._

_"Did Hannibal tell you?" I ask._

_I'm_ not _going to fucking cry._

_"Yes," he says._

_"He told me he wouldn't," I am going to fucking cry. Goddammit. "He promised. That fucking_ asshole _."_

_Will takes my hand then._

_"He promised," I say, all drenched in pleasure and anger and disgust. "But I shouldn't be surprised, he hates me."_

_"Why do you say that?"_

_"He threatened me right before Christmas."_

_Stop crying you idiot,_ stop _._

_"He -- what?"_

_"Well he didn't say anything directly he just said . . . I should be careful with you. He's just being Hannibal."_

_I try to pull away but he won't get go of my goddamn hand and he's so quiet and dumbfounded looking I wonder just how stupid Will is. How naïve. Does he really_ not _know what Hannibal is like?_

_"Come on, Will. You know Hannibal. He's like my dad."_

_Fucking_ shut the fuck up _Abigail._

_"He's nothing like your father," Will says, but it's really not comforting._

_"Did you get blood on your hands?" he asks after awhile._

_"What?"_

_"With Boyle?"_

_". . . yeah. Why?"_

_"No reason," he says. But then he takes both of my hands and starts kissing them._

_Each kiss makes me shudder -- the sensation loud in my body as a gunshot in the air._


	122. A New Year

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How Hannibal landed in the hospital on New Year's day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Originally posted here.](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/107467468018/a-new-year-january-1-timestamp)

[OOC: Warnings for violence and gore.

I assume the emergency services of Wolf Trap and the local area are faster than those in Baltimore. LOL. There is a hospital about 15 minutes away.]

 

* * *

 

**January 1, 2015**

**A New Year**

 

**Will**

_I can't stop thinking about it._

_Winston cocks his head at me as if to ask_ what is wrong with you _, before[Henry](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/107047631623/will-how-are-your-dogs-adopted-any-new-dogs) blunders into the both of us._

_Dogs are so easy. It's such a relief, being out of the house, though it's cold enough that I can feel the hairs in my nose stiffen. The sun's just risen, the sky still a little pink in the east. But the woods are gray, night shadows still clinging to the bare pine and oak and sycamores. And the dogs, all frisking around me, ice and snow cracking beneath them as they snuffle and romp. Everything feels a little calmer, saner away from the house. Away from Abigail, and, by proxy, Hannibal._

_It had felt satisfying though. Watching her cry._

_I can hear Hannibal's voice in my head. Sometimes I have conversations with him, like he's still my therapist. His voice is melodious, but perfectly neutral, when he asks me why it had felt so good to make Abigail cry._

_"Well, I'd had enough," I tell the Hannibal in my head, who I somehow don't want to punch, all things considered._

_I'd had enough of her jerking me around, of indulging her whims like she was the only person involved in our relationship. Boyfriend or no. I'd let it drag on for months knowing it wasn't going to go -- anywhere. At least, not the way things are. I'd had enough of her acting like -- well -- a child. I'd let her swan through my life, and Hannibal's, like a cat who just wanted (and expected) the cream -- the sex, the supposed intimacy and closeness and trust -- but never had to do any of the goddamn work to earn it. Like transparency. Courtesy. Basic respect._

_But Hannibal -- fuck him._

_I've never been more angry with another person in my life. I could vomit. If I think too much on it, all the colors in the world start to scream. The ice and snow of the woods would scald my eyes until I was blind; the dead browns and grays of the trees and brush would become bruisingly livid; the gold husks of sedge and wild grasses would slice me clean open._

_He's violated -- everything._

_Henry growls at the wind as he is want to do and I throw a stick so he doesn't start barking. Buster would be sure to join in just to show all the other dogs how loud he was, and then the whole pack would start and the woods would be rattling with their noise._

_But then. She'd been crying and it wasn't until the sun had set and the world dimmed that I seemed to be able to feel anything but my own sadistic satisfaction. That I could_ see  _Abigail, mostly naked, my cum dried on her skin, sobbing._

_"It's okay, baby girl," I said, when I finally coaxed her into my arms. I'm surprised she came willingly at all, but she burrowed against me like a helpless little thing and held on._

_"It's okay," I repeated, rocking her in my arms._

_"I'm sorry," she said at one point, right before midnight. "I'm sorry I lied. I -- I'm sorry."_

_So maybe not just a child._

_And it was my fault for not expecting more from her. For not asking her to be more accountable. For underestimating her, coddling her, indulging her. Instead of treating her like an adult. It's hard to expect someone to surpass such low expectations, I suppose._

_It's a new year though. Henry has snagged some dead husk of a thing and is capering to bring it to me when Buster intercepts him and darts into the woods, growling triumphantly. Henry looks bewildered and Winston cocks his head at me as if I should do something about all this._

_When I'd kissed her good morning, she hadn't returned it._

_"You scared me yesterday," she said, back to being guarded. "Don't ever do that again."_

_"Don't lie to me again," I said._

_"Yeah, you should talk."_

_"I don't lie."_

_"Not directly," she said. "It's what you don't say that's the problem though, isn't it? You're a puzzle with half the fucking pieces missing."_

_It was -- apropos. I laughed because it was so much so._

_"What?" she asked._

_And then I kissed her again and I wanted to say: that's beautiful Abigail Hobbs, and I love you, I love you because what you said is true, and for the fact that you had blood on your hands, and the fact you could keep secrets from me in a way no one else seems to, and for the fact that I was your first and sometimes I dream I will be your last, and for the fact that you're angry and petulant and restless and wild, and because you play with me as if we are no more than ridiculous teenagers rather than people with heavy burdens we did not ask for, and because you have no idea who you really are yet, but I know when you come into your own you will be more frightening and beguiling and stronger than anyone I can imagine._

_Instead I said: "You're right. I have some pieces missing."_

_She looked at me like I was already a lost cause so I went out for a walk to clear my head, and besides, the dogs needed to run, tails whipping through the icy air, tongues lulling._

_I sit on the cold, felled trunk of a bitternut hickory and watch Winston and Henry wrestle._

_Probably I should just leave Abigail and Hannibal and just have my dogs, because everything would be easier, at least, and maybe I would get a full night's rest._

_The Hannibal in my head -- the fake one, the still-my-therapist-Hannibal -- cocks his head and purses his lips. He asks why I had to use sexual and emotional coercion like I did with Abigail. Why I flirted with that definite "do not cross" line._

_But it was the only thing she'd respond to. If I'm direct with her she blows me off, or ignores me, or tries to put me on the defensive. Manipulation and coercion is the only goddamn thing she understands. It's how she was raised. It's how her father treated her. It's the language she knows. So I played a role to get what I wanted. Fucking fancy that._

_"Isn't it ironic you had to play a role to get the truth?" therapist Hannibal seems tremendously pleased._

_"Maybe it's not a role. You're always telling me to embrace my nature, doctor," I click my tongue at him._

_He is only all the more pleased. And this conversation is definitely imaginary because if Hannibal were actually here right now, in Wolf Trap, I wouldn't be talking to him. I'd be straddling him and beating the everloving shit out of him. Whatever I've done with Abigail is besides the point now. I'd be demanding to know why he's done this to us, why he's gone and violated our agreement, the very bedrock of our relationship._

_Even Steven, we'd said. And even now, in the winter Virginia air, I begin to shake again with rage._

One: Everything is even between us. Always.

Two: There will be no lies.

Three: We can veto one another's play mates and outside partners, but we cannot meddle in each other's other relationships. Ever.

_Henry comes up with a pinecone and drops it in my lap._

_I think might as well wretch my shoulder, throwing that damn thing so hard, and a white wake of snow puffs out behind Henry as he scrambles for the pinecone. He brings it right back and I throw it again, and we play until my neck and shoulder burn and the other dogs are starting to whine protest._

_It lets me get all the anger out though, until I'm left with a kind of quiet despair and unease. There's really only one choice I have, right now. Well, two. The first is to confront Hannibal and renegotiate the terms of our agreement. The second is. Well. It's like thick black tar sucking at my boots as I come home._

_I hear him though. And it's not my imaginary, therapist Hannibal. It's my real Hannibal, my lover, my partner, my friend. That bastard. I hear him in my house, his voice, gasping, with a kind of shock and wonder: "Abigail."_

_"Oh my god, oh my god," Abigail says as I come through the back door._

_There is something sticking out of Hannibal. Out of his belly, just below the ribs. Abigail's hand is on it, and she's half turned from him. His hand, slack on her throat, falls away as he sags into the kitchen counter._

_"Will," he pants, and he sounds -- like a lost boy. His voice is small. And scared._

_"Hannibal."_

_I'm by his side as he drags to the floor. I reach for the knife -- how did my kitchen knife get in him so deep, it's wrong, he's not clumsy like that -- and he puts his hand on my wrist._

_"No Will," he manages. "Bandage it. Keep pressure on the wound. Don't move -- anything. I need -- blankets," he shudders and there is blood oozing out of him now, staining his clothes, all over my hands._

_"Hannibal --"_

_Abigail is crouched on the floor making noises like the ones she made when she lay on the floor, bleeding out, my hands to unsteady and slippery to stop the breathing. The dogs are barking and baying and the back door bangs,_ thwamp, thwamp, thwamp,  _and Hannibal keeps clutching at me saying "Will," his eyes fluttering._

_"I didn't mean -- he grabbed at me," Abigail says. "I'm --" she gets up._

_A kitchen towel on his wound, white, his red blood like roses blooming in the snow._

_"It'll be okay, it'll be okay," I say over and over._

_Somewhere she is dialing her phone and saying there was an accident and an ambulance is needed._

_"It'll be okay," I tell Hannibal._

_Towels -- she brings them from the bathroom, and duct tape, for the bandage. A blanket from the hall closet she drapes around him._

_My hands are slipping on his wound already, slipping and I'm shaking so badly now, fear and adrenaline and watching Hannibal's eyes roll back, his breathing quicken as he goes into shock._

_"No, no, no, Hannibal no, no. Please."_

_I can't get a grip I can't._

_Her hands are white and firm as bone as they come down on top of mine. As she puts the bathroom towel over the kitchen towel and pushes down with me. Steady as she tears the strips of duct tape and makes the bandage._

_She looks at me then, and there is nothing there but determination. The kind of a person who has spent her whole life surviving and fucking knows how and won't stop now. Won't ever stop._

_Hannibal winces and, for a moment, his eyes open and he smiles at her._

_"Remarkable girl," he says._

_I can hear the ambulance sirens before he passes out._


	123. MP: Moral Obligation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will finds some interesting new porn one night. 
> 
> Mindpalace2k15 crossover chapter. (Hence the MP at the beginning.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Originally posted here.](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/107563517153/the-winnowing-wind-mresundance)

**Will**

There's a horrifying moment as I wonder if someone has somehow gotten their hands on some of the private videos Hannibal and I have made in the past year. On Hannibal's iPad, the grainy images of two men: one who distinctly looks like myself, though younger, softer, his cheeks flush, lips shockingly pink and parted as makes sweet, soft sounds of pleasure; the other, taller, broad shouldered, his spine rippling in ways that I've only seen with Hannibal. The only thing that finally convinces me is that the Hannibal-like man's hair is longer, much longer, and he is a little more . . . reserved than my Hannibal would generally be. Not that I can say anything in this video is "reserved".

But both of the men look -- no.  _No._

I contemplate that horrible title (CUTE YOUNG INNOCENT TWINK PASSIONATE FUCK WITH OLDER MAN) while the realization slowly sinks in.

So Hannibal's neighbors are now not just selling lube, but producing porn, and I wonder what, if any, moral obligations I might have here. Do they know their video is online and --  _fuck that is hot_  -- if not, should I tell them?

It's not worth contemplating tonight. The moral obligations, that is. I've spent the day making sure Hannibal was resettled back in his house after a week in the hospital, and, even stupidly volunteered to sleep here overnight; even doped up on percocet Hannibal needs constant supervision. I won't sleep much tonight, but it's not like I've had a plenitude of sleep in the last week, nor eaten that well, much less had time for sex with -- anyone -- much less me and my right hand.

So.

What people do not know seldom harms them, I tell myself as I unzip my pants and skip ahead to the good parts of the video.


	124. See My Heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will has a difficult choice to make regarding Hannibal. 
> 
> Angst. All the angst.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Originally posted here.](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/108102879043/ooc-warnings-for-angst-thanks-to)

[OOC: Warnings for angst.

Thanks to [wiith-my-hands](http://tmblr.co/mVntEKWGNcmupuCky2wTAPA), [memorypalaceofwillgraham](http://tmblr.co/mwx-H928JXJxZ4EK3g02ceg), and [kinneykid](http://tmblr.co/mfunHIqOc5oJbVA8wJchu1g) for giving this a once over and assuring me things made sense LOL.

It's snowing in this fic. Weather.com says it is not snowing today in Baltimore. Thank goodness this is fiction.]

 

* * *

 

 

**See My Heart**

**January 14, 2015**

**Will**

_I want to remember you like this. Your face smoothed by sleep; your hair downy as feathers; your beautiful, lithe dancer's body unspooled and relaxed, your great chest rising and falling evenly as the snow falls outside. My hand so hot over your heart it feels like I should have blisters on my palms._

_I want to remember the way your dark eyes flicker and then focus as you wake, and the soft smile that comes over you when you see me._

_I want to remember the fine lines around your eyes and mouth; the way the small of your back feels against my palm; that thin band of silver in your hair; your different smells: some salty, like sweat and sex; some acrid like lemon and soap; some sweet like laurel, musky as sandalwood._

_Sometimes like me._

_If I catalogue all of this, can I keep it_ cher _? If I remember the different size of your shoes, depending on the type and brand, if I remember how you like to press your shirts, if I remember your fingers on the blade as you made me meal after meal, if I imagine the way your wound will heal -- a little pucker of scar tissue, like a strange silent mouth open on your abdomen -- will it hurt less?_

_I wasn't going to tell you like this, while you were still limping through the days and you need me: to cook you simple meals that you make too much of, to help you clean and dress your stitched wound every day, or even to take out your trash and do your laundry._

_"I can't do this," I say more to the iron which has burned my hand, through my carelessness, because I was trying to remember what you looked like while sleeping this morning; trying to commit it to memory with everything else._

_"You don't have to iron for me," you say, as if this is only about that._

_It breaks my heart a little because you -- you haven't guessed. You don't know._

_I should drop it, but. The weight of this choice has been on me for two weeks now, and the exhaustion of that keeps pulling me down. It won't get any better if I wait any longer. There is never a good or better time for these kind of things._

_So I unplug the iron and fold your shirts away and give myself a few precious seconds to prepare._

_"I mean," I say carefully, approaching you in bed. I'm glad you're observant, awake, and not unduly pained or drugged._

_"I mean -- I can't do this. Us."_

_I say the words very slowly, and loud enough that they will be clear. I must sound indifferent, cold, even, but my heart is in my ears and I sit on the edge of your bed so I don't fall._

_You peer at me, at first curiously, not comprehending, but then I have to watch as understanding slowly dawns in you. Your eyes darken then, and they're like shards of glass. You're fidgeting -- you can't help it, I know, you only do it when you feel uncertain, cornered -- and you're wadding the bed sheets up, knuckles pale as the snow outside._

_"Will?" you ask._

_Is it cruel to come closer, to reach out and take your hands and kiss your palms? Does it burn you the way it burns me? Your hands taste of medicine and warm sheets and my tears._

_"I can't, Hannibal," I say. "We haven't really talked about all this.[About the stabbing](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/107467468018/a-new-year-january-1-timestamp). It's just been getting through, day to day. But I can't any more."_

_"What do you mean Will?"_

_You're holding my face so tenderly I might shatter._

_"I mean I can't -- I can't do this with you right now. I can't. You've -- you broke our agreement."_

_You don' t need to hear it -- the recitation of your sins, our sins, really, because it was our agreement and we fucked it up together -- but I need to say it._

_"Even Steven," I say, kissing your hand again, shaking. "We promised to be each other's equals as much as we can. We promised not to lie. We promised to not meddle with each other's other relationships if we had them. We promised. And you lied to me, with Abigail.[You meddled with my relationship with her](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/106153946393/ooc-christmas-timestamp-warnings-for)."_

_"You also promised to be_ mine, _" you growl, fingers tightening around my throat and god, I love you. God I love that you have murder in your eyes, even if you aren't physically able to do much more than just threaten me right now._

_"And you promised to be mine. That meant loyalty, not sexual fidelity. How is it loyal to[lie to me about Nicholas Boyle](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/107467089498/quid-pro-quo-december-31st-timestamp)? How is it loyal to me to [break our promise](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/107467468018/a-new-year-january-1-timestamp), Hannibal?"_

_You're so quiet I can almost hear the snow falling outside._

_I can wait you out. I am stronger that way. You are a patient man, but in the way only a controlling man can be. You're patient because you believe what_ you _want will happen. I am patient because I can handle anything that happens, no matter what I want or don't want._

_You don't even have the courage to look at me. But calling you a coward won't erase my mistakes either, or make this less painful._

_"Are you leaving me for . . . her? Abigail?" And you sound so lost._

_"No," I say. "I'm leaving you because you broke a promise which was sacred. I know you Hannibal. I know you think it wasn't . . . breaking a promise, probably. But you know me too. You know I hate lying. You know that. And I can't do this with you if you're going to lie to me. I don't care what the fuck your -- pathology -- is or isn't."_

_I don't really know what the sound you make is, but it doesn't really matter anymore._

_"I will keep our secrets. You don't have to worry about that."_

_A sigh this time; you sound like you're dying._

_But I can't hold your hand or pull you close or kiss you and tell you I forgive you._

_"I love you always. But I can't do this right now."_

_The snow is deep and drifting across the roads and I could walk for miles and not notice how cold I am. There are back-roads and winding streets and busses and bars and places where there is some warmth and liquor which should feel like acid going down. There are places I can go -- you know, and I took you to some of these places -- where bodies burn red through the night, first on the dance floor and then between the sheets. There are places I can find men who fuck my sad, sorry ass raw in the back of their car._

_And I don't feel a damned thing; I'm already numb._

_You want me to be yours? I_ was _months ago, if you weren't too self absorbed or insecure or afraid or -- any number of things -- to notice._

_I'd already carved my own heart out and served it to you, piece by piece._

_You didn't even have to ask._


	125. Blood Knot

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After Will breaks up with Hannibal, he goes and visits Abigail.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Originally posted here on Tumblr.](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/108939551013/blood-knot-january-15-2015-timestamp)

**Blood Knot**

**January 15, 2015**

**Abigail**

_What am I supposed to do with you Will Graham, turn you away? When you're thumping on my door at 4 am, red eyed, hair wild, snow-soaked and shivering?_

_You stink. You smell like bar smoke and alcohol and sex._

_You laugh and I guess anyone else would be frightened by the sound. You sound like a psychopath. But I know you well enough, Will Graham, to know it's also the sound you make when you're just really desperate and lost for some reason._

_"I broke up with Hannibal," you say, though your speech is slurred and you keep thudding into the wall, trying to toe off your boots._

_Wow you must be really, truly drunk._

_"You -- what?"_

_"I broke up with Hannibal."_

Thud, thud, thud.

_"Just -- hold still," I say, kneeling to untie and pull off your boots, soggy with slush. Even your socks are soaked, your feel are wet and icy._

_"I broke up with Hannibal," you say again and you sound like you're deep down. As if you've been dropped in a dark well and you're not sure you're ever going to get out of it._

_"I broke up with him. Ah. I'm -- I can't. Drive. Ha. So I came -- here. You were closest," you manage as I stroke wet curls from your face. You're pale as the milk in my fridge, and you can't even focus, though, you make the softest little sound as I cup your cheek, and you lean into my touch._

_Goddammit Will Graham._

_"You are so drunk," I say because the obvious is easiest to work with. "And you stink. How many people did you sleep with tonight?"_

_"Only -- three. One with my mouth. Two in cars. I think."_

_"Jesus, Will. Did you use condoms?"_

_"Yes? But like you care?"_

_"You're taking a shower and then sleeping this off," I say, steering you around my mattress bed, and the pile of stupid textbooks I definitely can't afford after today._

_I really just want to throw them out the window and watch those fucking books fall through the air. It would be satisfying to hear them hit the ground below, and not just because I was fired today from the world's stupidest call center job because my supervisor couldn't stop harassing me and I finally told her to leave me alone in front of everyone. Or because that balance between financial aid, student loans, and work is now all jacked up and I have no idea what I'm going to do about the rent next month._

_I should've gotten a room-mate, except being around people was just impossible when I finally got out of that hospital. I can understand why you live all the way out in the middle of bumfuck nowhere and would drive an hour one way to work every day. Being alone in your own space, with no-one one to watch you, or make comments about your psychology when you eat chocolate Cheerios for breakfast, lunch, and dinner, or prance around in your underwear, or just sit around reading crappy novels and masturbating, is pretty damn close to heaven. I've never had my own space, ever, not even in my own fucking head; this little shoebox is all mine, every dingy corner of it. I can cry and yell at my parents when I need to. I can cry and yell at you and Hannibal when I need to. I can say whatever I want and do what I want. No one can stop me or tell me otherwise._

_That's why I'm also angry, Will Graham. You come barging in to my space, the only place that's mine, that neither you or Hannibal are really allowed in. And you're drunk as fuck. Even listening to you taking off your clothes is painful because you're so slow, fumbling with everything. I can hear you slipping and sliding in my shower, and it shouldn't be so satisfying when you yelp, probably because the water is too hot when you turn it on._

_But it's worse when I hear you cry._

_You're not going to miss me, so I go out to the corner where Arun and the 24 hour convenience store and gas station with the weird kebabs is, and get some Vitamin C and generic painkillers and some of the greasy kebabs because nothing will soak up alcohol like those kebabs -- on my honor, Arun swears -- and by the time I'm back in my own apartment you've stopped crying at least, but the shower is still running, so I knock._

_"You alive?"_

_"Yeah," you say, though you really don't sound it. "Do you have -- towels?"_

_I can't help it. You come out of the bathroom, trembling with cold and alcohol and probably heartbreak, as dramatic as that sounds, you're naked and dripping and just -- pathetic. Of course I just want to wrap you in a towel and try to rub warmth into you._

_I hate you for it. For coming here, waking me up, dumping all your bullshit on me again. I hate you for making me feel like I give a shit. I hate you because the only other person I've ever really hated as much is my dad._

_And I only hated him because I loved him._

_So I let you sit your wet ass on me bed, and force you to drink a glass of Vitamin C, to swallow some painkillers, before letting you nibble on a kebab._

_"I'll pay you back," you mumble._

_"Don't worry about it," I say, using my spare blanket to wrap around you, because you are not going back in your disgusting clothes if you're sleeping here. I'd like to burn your clothes in the sink but then you would have to drive home naked. The thought of that makes me laugh._

_"What's . . . funny?"_

_"You are."_

_"I don't feel funny," you say, but not without humor. And I kiss you in that spot where your beard never grows in, near enough to the corner of your lips._

_"Did you really break up with him?"_

_You look like you might vomit so I take that as a "yes"._

_"Why?"_

_"It's nothing to do with you," you say._

_"Oh fuck off," I say. "Was it . . .[the Nichols Boyle thing](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/107467089498/quid-pro-quo-december-31st-timestamp)?"_

_"Something like that."_

_"It couldn't possibly be[Hannibal trying to kill me](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/107467468018/a-new-year-january-1-timestamp)," I say and even though I'm trying to make it seem funny, it still isn't._

_Sometimes I still wake up in the middle of the night because I think I see his face in the shadows. I think I see him waiting for me, smiling._

_And I did think he might come for me. I did. I just didn't think he would try it in your own house, on New Year's Day._

_When I heard the backdoor open and shut I thought you'd come back from your walk with the dogs. But then I heard -- nothing else. Not your half mindful, half sloppy footfalls. Not the dogs barking and whisking around. Just an aching kind of silence._

_I'd called for you -- and you didn't come for me. Not in time. Never in time, Will Graham._

_Hannibal and I stood facing each other in your narrow kitchen, his nostrils flaring._

_He said he could smell you on me, and he probably thought we'd gone and fucked without condoms again. You think he would have smelled the latex too, or he'd maybe gone and checked the bathroom trash for the wrapper. But probably he was just angry, jealous, and picking and choosing what he wanted to believe, and when he reached for me, he wanted to do more than just frighten me._

_My dad used to get the same look, you know._

_And I don't know if you'd believe me, not now, not after everything. But I'm not a killer. At least, not like my dad was. He spent years controlling it until he just couldn't anymore. He loved me so much in his own way, I guess._

_I'm not like Hannibal either. He's like those painters and writers you hear about, who do strange things that only make sense to them. But whatever he does he does for reasons I don't even guess at. He is just that fucked up._

_But what I am, Will Graham, is a survivor. That's the only thing that kept me alive seventeen years in my parent's house. Keep your head down, don't look the truth square in the face, don't talk about it, deny, lie, manipulate if you have to, but get the hell out. Get the hell out alive._

_That's why I killed Nicholas Boyle. And when Hannibal's hands reached for me, there was one thing he miscalculated. He miscalculated how fast a survivor and the child of a serial killer can move when she is threatened, and how quickly she can grab the nearest kitchen knife and deliver a blow that counts._

_By the time you were there it was too late and there was blood on my hands again and Hannibal looked at me with hatred and then a kind of -- joy? Who knows. I couldn't really think beyond just doing what I'd always been trained to do in emergencies. (You can thank my dad, for teaching me all about knife wounds and accidental gunshot wounds and what do when someone goes into shock.) I really didn't think about it when we were in the hospital, waiting to see what would happen to Hannibal, and then these past few weeks of going back and forth between my apartment and work and Hannibal's house. It's all just been dragging through the days. It had been good sometimes though, in a weird way. You saw how Hannibal started to be nice to me again -- you got the most baffled, hilarious look on your face._

_I guess it could be because I surprised him, or proved myself worthy to him. Or maybe I am just interesting to him._

_"Oh, him attacking you might have something to do with it," you answer, entirely without humor. "I'm going to sleep a few hours but then -- fuck -- we'll have to go," you say._

_"What?"_

_"Hannibal," you say, rubbing your face and you look so old. "He's . . . not an immediate danger but he could come after you. Again. And we have to get you out of harm's way."_

_"What do you mean?"_

_You're quiet for so long that I think you've forgotten. Finally you say: "I have a cache of . . . documents. Fake ID's and passports. And a secret account."_

_"Will, what are you talking about?"_

_You look at me almost guiltily._

_"Hannibal is . . . a dangerous man," you say._

_"No shit Sherlock," I say, before I can stop myself. As if Hannibal trying to kill me wasn't a tip off. But it's not like it's hard to tell something his seriously weird with this guy._

_You make a face. "It's not a joke, Abigail."_

_"Who says I'm joking?"_

_More silence while you chew on your lower lip._

_"After I started dating him and . . . I knew he had this . . . dangerous side to him. I made . . .  contingency plans. In case things didn't go well."_

_"Sounds like the kind of plans an abused wife makes."_

_You laugh and it's not a happy sound._

_"Maybe. But the point is: we have to get away from here. Get_ you _away from here. We can get you some fake ID's, a new identity, social security number --"_

_My apartment feels even smaller than it is, and all my stuff -- my books, my mattress, my cubby of clothes, my little kitchen and bathroom, the sad pictures of my parents which I hung half heartedly, the pictures of you and Hannibal, and of you and his dogs -- just closes in on me and there is no room to breathe._

_"No fucking way."_

_"What?"_

_"No fucking way am I leaving," I cross my arms and glare down at you, a sad lump of a man wrapped in my towel and blanket and sitting on my bed at 5 in the fucking morning because you broke up with your crazy murderous boyfriend and came here drunk._

_"But he -- he could kill you --"_

_"I'm not leaving," I say._

_Goddammit, Will Graham, this fucking shoebox sized apartment is mine. I might not be living in it by the end of the month, but it's not about this apartment. It's about having something that belongs to_ me.  _Running just means my whole life belongs to someone else: to Hannibal, and to you._

_"You don't seem to understand --"_

_"No, I understand. I really do. I just don't want to leave."_

_You look uncomfortable with all this, but fuck you._

_"I've had it with you both," I snap. "I've had it with Hannibal first trying to smother me and then trying to get rid of me. I've had it with you wanting me and wanting more. I can't give you more Will. I can't. I can't give Hannibal more either. You both just want me to be something I'm not and I've sick of you both treating me like -- doll or a child or something you can just do what you want with. I don't know. One minute you treat me like a child and the next you're being grumpy because I'm not being more mature. I can't be what I'm not."_

_It feels so good to just yell at you after all these months. I don't even know why I kept quiet, except I was afraid of you sometimes, and other times I pitied you, and other times I didn't want you to be angry with me. But it feels too good to stop now. So I say what I want to say. I keep talking and I tell you I was daddy's good little girl, his lure. I talk about the blood on my hands. I tell you that I felt powerful to stop it all with Nick Boyle. That, just for a moment, I had wanted to feel powerful like that again when I stabbed Hannibal._

_I don't get to finish because you look all confused and hurt. The words start to stick in my throat and all I can say is: "See? See?"_

_This is who I am, really, deep down, every ugly part of me. And I love it. Because it's part of me._

_You don't say anything. You just stare at me, all mournful, as if I've died._

_"Say something."_

_When you still don't I take the blanket and wrap us both in it, huddling next to you. You smell like my hibiscus shampoo and shower gel._

_You smell like me._

_When I saw you naked earlier, when I knew why I hated you, I also finally knew why I had taken a knife to Hannibal. Why I fought to live. Because there is something here for me, even if it doesn't make any sense: an ill fitting sense of home, of family._

_"So you were the lure," you whisper._

_"Yeah."_

_"I've been a lure too," you say, and then you begin to talk about the things you've done, the things you've kept from me.[About your first partner](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/97815550513/hannibals-worst-dirty-pillow-talk) when you were a detective; [about Hannibal](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/94555776818/i-was-happy-to-read-that-you-are-doing-less); [about you and Hannibal](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/99406379308/whats-the-hardest-youve-ever-have-been-with)._

_It shouldn't feel good. It feels like that fishhook that[got caught in my finger last spring](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/107035010664/qa-abigail-who-was-your-first-eyeballs-will). You pulled it out of me so gently, before sucking the blood from the wound._

_We fall asleep without all our secrets and it's a good sleep. It's even better when I wake up before you do, and watch you. You seem relaxed and at ease for once, not anxious or self conscious. I like running my fingers over your naked body and feeling you respond. I like the coarse hair on your belly and between your thighs. I like leaning down and taking you in my mouth and feeling you harden. The way your eyelashes flicker as you wake is -- beautiful._

_"Abigail," you gasp as I take off my t-shirt and underwear and straddle you. You slide right into me._

_"Oh," you say and "oh baby girl."_

_I like that you call me that, when it's only the two of us. Those words are hot as your hands on my shoulder blades as you rock up into me._

_"Oh god you feel so good," you say, rolling me onto my back and sinking deeper. "You feel good baby girl," you moan and come inside me._

_I come around you while you're still shivering inside me, and you groan again, thrusting a few more times._

_"Oh baby girl," you whimper into my throat._

_Yeah._

_I give a shit about you too Will._


	126. Almost Like Hope

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will meets someone and comes to a decision about his relationship with Abigail.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Originally posted here.](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/108940417803/almost-like-hope-january-15-2015-timestamp)

**Almost Like Hope**

**January 15, 2015**

**Will**

_Everything is pieces. My life shattered all around me in sharp little shards, and the feeling of that settles down in my gut, like I’ve gone and swallowed all those pieces._

_I’m in some goddamn IHOP bathroom staring myself down and knowing I’ve never seen an uglier son-of-a-bitch, after having broken up with the man I love probably more than is sane or safe, fucking three strangers, and then dumping myself on some teenage girl and fucking her too. And oh, of course, after she told me she is a killer pretty much like her dad, and hey, I might have said I was a killer too. But so is my boyfriend — my ex. My eyes are angry red, bloodshot, and I look paler than the snow outside. My lips are half translucent. I should be able to see my teeth through my cheeks._

_There was nothing to really eat in Abigail’s apartment — some chocolate Cheerios of some kind which she likes — so I insisted we go out for brunch as a magnanimous gesture. Forgetting I look like a ghoul and my clothes — the only thing I have to wear, from last night, from the same day that I broke up with Hannibal — smell pretty much like the dead raccoon I once found. It had gotten stuck between the walls in the attack and died, the resulting stink pluming down through the house and making the dogs keen and whine._

_My name is Will Graham and I am a fucking idiot and it’s 11:23 am in Baltimore Maryland, and the florescent lights in the bathroom claw at me, but the sunlight coming through the windows as I go to rejoin Abigail in our booth is worse. Hot and bright, it burns me through and through, peeling the layers of my clothes and skin and muscle back until I’m just this pile of — nothing. Dust maybe. The coffee is a thousand times worse than any ass I’ve ever licked, and there is a dried crust on my fork and this is my goddamn miserable life. Scowling at unclean cutlery, shifting through the wreckage of my relationship, and bickering with Abigail about paying her half._

_"No you won’t," she says, impatiently, pursing her lips. The same lips which, only an hour ago, had been around my cock when I woke up._

_It’s the way it always is with us: there is something here, but not. Sometimes it is almost tangible enough for me to touch it, to grab at it. Like when she sank down on me and made the most exquisite little gasp. Mostly it’s like the steam wafting off this crappy coffee. It’s thin and ghostly and then gone._

_She orders us both orange juice — me an extra large despite my protests — and is telling me I should have the hash browns because I am still “so hung over” when I hear someone bellow:_

_"Hobbs!"_

_It’s the kind of sound one associates with a rhinosaurus. Not a svelte blonde traipsing around in red leather boots, hair braided back. Her forehead is narrow and her face is like an egg; that stupid thought rolls around and around in my brain._

_"Hobbs," she says to Abigail and Abigail actually smiles. She usually flinches when people say her last name — her father’s name._

_"Hey, nice to see you. Ready for the new semester next week?"_

_"Oh, uhm," Abigail says, shrinking. "I don’t know. I kinda. Lost my job. I might have to drop out this semester."_

_"Holy shit, Hobbs? Are you serious?"_

_"Wait, you lost your job?" And now I feel both incredibly stupid and selfish, because she hadn’t said anything about that. Then again, confessing the murders we’ve done is probably a little more pertinent._

_"Yeah, I kind of went off on that one supervisor."_

_The blonde woman rolls her eyes. “She deserved it.” She leans in, and her eyes are very, very blue and brimful of mischief._

_"You lost your job?" I repeat and both women look at me as if remembering I am there. And I wish they would go back to forgetting me, because I know exactly what I look like right now: like something that you scrap off the bottom of your shoe._

_"Yeah," Abigail says._

_Silence. I want the blonde woman to go away. She keeps peering at me as if she can’t decide if I am disgusting, pathetic, or vaguely humorous._

_My name is Will Graham and it’s 11:34 am in Baltimore, Maryland, and I am the goddamn life of this party._

_"You gonna introduce your friend, Hobbs?" the blonde tips her chin at me._

_"Oh, this is Will. He’s — a friend," Abigail fumbles. "This is Molly. She’s from school."_

_"We took Comp together," Molly says, still scrutinizing me. I wish Hannibal were here. He would put his hand on my thigh, or against the small of my back, and I would feel solid, anchored, and not unnerved by strangers staring at me. But then again, Hannibal would sooner gut himself than consent to have brunch at IHOP._

_"Hey, what did you get on your last paper?" Abigail asks._

_Molly snorts. “A ‘B’. I bet you got an ‘A’ though, Miss Brainiac.”_

_Abigail smiles and it’s like I’ve never even seen her before, like I don’t even know her. There is a softness to her right now that I’ve not seen; an easiness. She is just a normal girl who can talk about her grades and get teased._

_"I did get an ‘A’," she says. "But I’m not that smart."_

_"Bullshit," Molly says. "You’re incredible. Oh, and hey, you were right about Willy. He was faking."_

_"I told you. I used to fake being sick too, sometimes, when my dad wanted to go hunting. Why was he faking?"_

_"I don’t want to intrude," Molly balks._

_"No," Abigail says. "Sit with us. She can sit with us, right?"_

_Oh god. Please let the ceiling cave in and crush me. Please let the floor open up and devour me. Please let Hannibal come in right now and paint the walls with my blood. Please let Frederick Chilton come in and insist he have an appointment to analyze me right now. Anything but having to be a miserable wreck of a man and have to endure socializing even by proxy._

_"Sure," I lie._

_Abigail moves over, bumping me, which means I have to move over, or we will be pressed together too closely, and that would be awkward in public. Molly plops down at the end._

_"Some kids are bullying him at school," Molly says. "So he just doesn’t want to go to school. I’ve been to his teachers and the principal and they aren’t doing jack shit. I swear to god if I ever figure out which kids are picking on him I will blow all their heads off. Maybe that’s why he won’t tell me," she smiles and it’s almost whimsical._

_"How do you know Abigail?" she asks and I feel like she has a knife in hand and she’s debating the merits of twisting it into me right now._

_"I … knew her parents," I say._

_Abigail turns a little paler than usual._

_"He works for the FBI," Abigail says._

_Thanks, Abigail. Thank you ever so much. Because now I am not just a human lump of garbage, but I am a human lump of garbage who doesn’t even have the excuse of being a student or out of work or anything. Nope. Now I am Mr. Badge Carrying FBI Agent who also looks like he might be living in some dank basement apartment and doesn’t know how to launder his clothes or shampoo his hair and has approximately twenty cats and probably talks to himself while jerking off to weird shit late at night._

_It should probably worry me more how close this could be to the truth._

_"I consult for the FBI, sometimes. Mostly I’m a teacher at the Academy," I say, as if I have any dignity left._

_"Professor," Molly half purrs and I can’t tell if she is flirting, mocking, or both._

_The waitress is taking our orders and Abigail orders for me, more food than I will be able to stomach, but she says it will help. Molly gives me a very knowing look. Please let me choke on the hash browns._

_Usually I would want to flirt with someone like her. If I was in particularly exalted spirits, or, if she were a handsome man, or even just moderately pleasing, I’d even suggest sneaking into the bathrooms and fucking each other, or going to her car. She is exactly the kind of person who would get me into whole heaps of trouble, but the mostly benign kind. The “I’m late for work again because she pinned me against the wall and jerked me off” or “she said something crude in front of my coworkers” variety of trouble. But right now, with my whole life coming apart at the seams, thread by thread, all I can manage is not to be outright rude._

_Fortunately the food arrives and she and Abigail spend most of the time talking: about school, Molly’s red winter boots which she found at Goodwill, about Willy, who sounds like Molly’s son. At some point I lose track entirely and I just eat, shoveling food into my mouth and letting it settle in my belly and wishing that I was at Hannibal’s. Is he up by now, or still resting in bed? How much pain is in he in today? Has he been able to clean his wound himself or does Alana or someone else have to help him? Has he found the jambalaya I left him? Will he eat it or throw it out?_

_Does he miss me as much as I miss him already?_

_Does he feel disoriented and hollowed out?_

_The world lurches around me. Oh god. I can’t do this. I can’t leave him._

_"Well, I have to go," Molly says, knocking me out of my reverie._

_"I’ve got some stuff to wrangle with the Veteran’s office on campus before Willy gets home. They’re being dicks about my funding again."_

_The clarity and strength of her voice calls me back here, now._ _I’m Will Graham. I’m in Baltimore, Maryland. It’s nearly noon. There’s some half finished hash browns on my plate, but I’ve eaten eggs and bacon and toast already. I can taste the sugary stickiness of strawberry jam in the back of my throat. I’m here with Abigail Hobbs, who I love and who baffles me by equal measure, and who is looking at her friend with an expression she’s never shared with me. It’s not a romantic or lustful look; just happy. Happy to be seen and known by this person._

_"They always are dicks," Abigail says as Molly stands and leaves some money for her part of the bill._

_"Nice to see you, Hobbs. Don’t be a stranger. Call me. And uh — nice to meet you," Molly says, nodding to me._

_Abigail watches her friend go._

_"She seems nice," I say._

_"Yeah," Abigail says. "She’s was in the military. That’s why she calls me Hobbs. All last names."_

_"Oh."_

_There’s quiet as we finish, and pay the bill, splitting the remainder without even quarreling about it._

_As we step outside into the cold, bright afternoon, I can feel all the jagged pieces of myself not exactly come back together, but at least begin to collect themselves._

_I’m a wreck. I’m sad and terrified about leaving Hannibal, who feels like the love of my life, who owns my heart, my soul, right now. I’m ashamed of myself for blundering in on Abigail in so many ways, and so many times now, and then not even being there in return. For being so insistent about the version of her I wanted her to be — a mirage, really — that I didn’t even see and appreciate the reality of her. It’s little wonder she never shared much with me until last night._

_But at least I know who I am, and what feelings are knocking around inside me right now. At least I know that once I get through the denial, the grieving will come, suffocating me like sticky black tar. And once that’s done, then things will start to get better._

_And at least I know a little bit about what I want to do with Abigail. I want to tell her I love her, I do, but I wish I could care for her like Molly seemed to. I wish I could be Abigail’s friend. A real friend. Not the guy who trespasses on her, who she fucks and leaves._

_We are quiet all the way down to my car, which is parked near Hannibal’s. His neighbors seem quiet today, but I wonder what is going on in their world. What are the tragedies and triumphs they are experiencing that I don’t see, just like all the things I didn’t see — don’t see — about Abigail?_

_"You could have told me about your job."_

_She shrugs. “You were really stupid drunk and — grabby — last night.”_

_"Grabby?"_

_She frowns. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but — needy. You needed someone.”_

_"Sorry."_

_"Why?"_

_"I shouldn’t do that to you."_

_"Even if everything is messed up you still saved my life, Will Graham. You and Hannibal. That’s not nothing."_

_I think about that, and I look at her and feel like maybe this is the first time I’ve listened to her, really listened._

_"I’m glad you told me about the other stuff though," I said._

_Her smile is small, but it’s there. “Yeah, me too. Maybe you and Hannibal could give it a shot too.”_

_"Maybe. Not now, though. What are you going to do about your job?"_

_"I’ll figure it out."_

_"Will you be okay with … you know? Your living situation?"_

_"I’ll figure it out." She’s irritated now._

_"Hannibal might come after you —"_

_"He might come after you too," she says. "But I don’t think he’ll do that. To either of us."_

_"Still, it might be safer if you stay with me until we’re sure."_

_She sighs. “I appreciate the gesture, I really do, but I want my own space right now.”_

_"Just think about it. Call me if you need anything."_

_What I really mean is: call me if he comes for you._

_"I know," she says. I can tell by her expression that we both know the call would come too late._

_But I still have to say it._

_She’s turning to go and I say: “Abigail.”_

_"Yeah?"_

_"You think … maybe … that I can be your friend?"_

_She looks at me as if to say: you_ are  _my friend, dumb dumb._

_"Is this one of those questions where you’re trying to figure out what our relationship is again?"_

_"No. I just want to be your friend. If you want that."_

_And I mean it with pretty much everything I’m currently capable of mustering._

_"Friend with benefits?" she squints._

_I shrug._

_"You could call it that."_

_"No dating though?" she asks._

_"No dating."_

_"Okay," she looks relieved and it makes me want to laugh for some reason._

_It’s not bad. I feel better than I have for some hours, and though I’m still thinking about Hannibal — about how I’ve fucked everything up and I don’t want to live in a world without him by my side, and how I want to run back to his house and beg him to have me back — by the time I’ve driven home to Wolf Trap, I begin to feel relieved too. I begin to feel a kind of sweet, unburdened freedom._

_It’s almost like hope._

_Maybe I didn’t make a mistake breaking up with him. Maybe I made the right choice after all. Maybe what we had is what we had, and now it’s run it’s course and it’s done._

_Maybe._


	127. Depth Perception

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> imagine dark!will/will.
> 
> A response to a post that imaginewillgrahamcracker wrote and tagged twinkyempath in. imaginewillgrahamcracker is sort of twinky!Will's good doppelganger. :)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Originally posted here.](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/109135543023/imagine-dark-will-will)

> **hughdanciing asked:** imagine dark!will/will
> 
> **imaginewillgrahamcracker answered:** I’m left asking which part of the equation I lie on.
> 
> I wouldn’t doubt that my other half [twinkyempath] would be a part of it.

 

* * *

 [OOC: Like holy shitballs I didn’t notice this forever. D:

Okay, just for clarity sake: the “you” in this is [twinkyempath](http://tmblr.co/mnlvELGyA_anlpL1UgCuxZA) Will, while the “he” here is [imaginewillgrahamcracker](http://tmblr.co/mTvLFXWLu1dKWmkSmREwviw).

Warnings for slightly dark and disturbing imagery I guess.]

* * *

 

It’s not like looking in a mirror. 

It’s more like closing one eye and losing your depth perception.

You’re going to trip on that last step, because you can’t tell where things are any more.

You lean in a little more just to get a closer look at him, to see how much he like you, after all. Maybe too, you want to see what you are missing.

At first it’s nothing. You both wear the same shirts the same pants, and both ruffle your hair the same way, almost casually, indifferent because the curls will be the same mess no matter what you do with it. You both laugh at the same sordid things in this world, and the sound is like birds being startled from the bare branches of trees in the midst of winter. The sound is thin and far too rare, but neither of you seem to notice.

But then you begin to see. Your laugh is a little sharper, higher, slightly more hysterical than his. You smile differently: he with a kind of ease and assuredness, you with a kind of anxiety you’ve had to muffle over the years.

You love different and entirely similar men: both fine, both beautiful specimens, but your specimen comes home smelling of blood and viscera and touches you with hot gentle hands; his comes home smelling of too much expensive cologne and a lingering kind of tenderness. You hold the man you love tight, tightly, coiling around him like a constrictor, and if you’re not careful you will break bones. He holds the man he loves tightly too, but there is yet enough air for the both of them to breathe.

You and he both look at the world and see the livid skein of violence drawing people together. But when he goes home he goes into silence and whiteness, like clarity, and finds himself if not emptied, at least drained of it for awhile. When you go home you go down, down in to the blackness of your own inner beast, and there you will feast until your hands and face drip with blood. Until you are glutted, at least for a little while.

It’s never enough.

Which is why you lean in when you are sure he doesn’t suspect it, and you try to lay your lips against his. You are just curious. And you almost miss his lips — your perception is still off — but you both clumsily slide into the kiss.

It’s not like tasting yourself, you’re sure. It’s like honeysuckle. The taste you remember from childhood camping trips with your dad. Those early mornings you rose to fish; you picked and sucked the nectar of honeysuckle blossoms until your hands and lips were sticky with it.

It reminds you of blood. You retract from the kiss, licking your lips and wondering.

You wonder what he tasted on you, but then, even if you could know, it wouldn’t be the same. Not at all.


	128. Probable Outcomes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hannibal processes his break-up with Will.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Originally posted here.](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/109602741528/probable-outcomes-timestamps-hannibals-pov)

[OOC:Okay, so warnings for cannibalism, gore, and suicide references in the firstpart.]

 

* * *

 

**Probable Outcomes**

**Hannibal**

 

_[A handwritten note, dated January 20, 2015, which was later ripped from Hannibal's diary and burned.]_

Veal,of course, for the girl. There could be no other dish for her. Petulant, arrogant child who pranced smugly about for having had you. If I had known how she would use you so callously I would not only never have suggested such an arrangement, but made the girl disappear right then and there, before your feelings for one another could blossom. Yes, certainly you would have grieved her. But in time that grief would have lessened. And I would have been with you for the duration of it. Our relationship would have been both preserved and strengthened by her death.

~~It little matters now that I wanted to use her and your affections for her to bind you to me all the more. If I let you have her, if I had power over the both of you, perhaps, perhaps . . . .~~

It little matters.

I underestimated her and her ability to do harm, to you and to myself. You are right to be in love with the girl, to be fascinated by her. I can see that now. If only I had seen it sooner, [before that morning in your kitchen](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/107467468018/a-new-year-january-1-timestamp), before I had her fragile, bird-bone throat in my hands. She reeked of you Will,  _reeked,_ and I could not bear it any longer to have you all over her,  _inside_ her.

* * *

 

So veal is, of course, fitting. A controversial dish for a fascinating, contrary, and irritating girl who has caused us so much strife.

But for you, dear Will; I cannot say I never contemplated the possibilities. There was a time, though brief and passing, when we had first met, that I deliberated the various outcomes of our relationship.

In the first scenario, you found me out rather quickly, to both of our chagrin. Your unfortunate end would have been quite sudden, but not unaffectionate. I would have made a delicious heart tartare of you. That outcome, I must confess, provoked a rather vicious longing in me: the ache of things that would never have been.

In the second, we fell into each other's greedy and violent embraces. I would give you the rare gift of myself -- my whole self -- and you would reject it as violently as you had once embraced me. Your end in this instance would have been more drawn out, alas. I would have been reluctant to part from your beautiful voice and body, despite the fact you would be all too glad to turn me in. But it would be the reasonable thing to end you, of course, with the threat to my life and liberty. In this scenario some kind of liver seemed acceptable, though, not if you had damaged said organ with your bouts of excessive drinking. In that case, I would have to recourse to some kind of rib, or perhaps carve some fine filets out of you. You always did find a well cooked steak, rare, quite agreeable. Bleu cheese would only compliment your natural acidity and tartness.

In the third, we fell into each other's greedy and violent embraces. I gave you the rare gift of my whole self, and you embraced it all. There would be no need for violence or murder, much less cataloguing the variety of ways I may have to dispose of you.

I did not believe this would ever come to pass. But, for a brief time, it did. 

There is something too wild about you at this juncture, too unsettled. Your uncertainty is not about me, I think; you saw who I was all along. No, your uncertainty, dear Will, lies squarely within yourself. Embracing me, and all of who I am, means you must certainly look at all the parts of yourself which you have refused to embrace as wholly, even now.

So you fled, claiming my lies drove you to it.

Tell me, dear Will, what do you think I will do now? After I have offered myself to you so utterly?

Were I in my full strength you would not have to wonder, but I have to admit that part of the fun is allowing you time to contemplate this. To conjure up all the worst scenarios your fertile, inventive mind can render.

Not a single one will be as horrifying as what I will do to you when I catch you, dear Will.

I think I will simply gut you, slit the girl's throat, and leave you, lying in a lake of blood. You can watch her die and know, with absolute certitude, that it was your choices which ended her life.

I fantasize about cutting you open and putting my hands inside you one more time, listening to the exquisite sounds of pain and awe you will make when I am in you. How will your lips taste as they slowly turn gray, as your body finally shudders and gives up?

Other times I also think of opening your chest while you are still alive and drawing out your beating heart. I would eat chunks of it while you watched, your hot blood filling my mouth as you died. I would savor each raw bite. I would savor the knowledge that I was the last thing you saw.

~~Then, when I was done with you, your body safely buried in Wolf Trap, along one of the winding paths in the woods which you loved so much, I would return home -- your home, not mine. I would call Beverly, whom you so trust, and then I would climb into our bed -- your bed -- one last time. I would not even bathe before injecting myself with the necessary amount of morphine to ensure that I never woke again. I would lie down, faint and glutted, and the last thing I would smell is you.~~

You have had me Will. You have had all of me. This is the only end I can see.

* * * 

_[A handwritten note, dated January 30, 2015, which was later ripped from Hannibal's diary and burned.]_

You will return to me, dear Will. You will come back to me as all things of this world surely shall return to one another; as all things in this universe.

This is a scientifically verifiable  _[fact](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Big_Crunch)_.

The same matter from which the universe was born is in your belly, and in mine; the same matter which once ignited now dead stars is in your blood and bones; the same matter which powered nebula and quasars and all manner of galaxies and celestial phenomenon, known and unknown, is in your flesh. Your laughter, your rare, beautiful smiles, your quick, acrobatic mind, the ways you moan in the midst of pleasure, the feel of your hands on me, the freckles across your shoulders and down your spine, that constellation of beauty marks hidden by your beard: these all bespeak our celestial origins.

And some very distant day, time will stop. It will arrest itself -- and reverse. Instead of [leaving me alone and cold in bed](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/108102879043/ooc-warnings-for-angst-thanks-to), you will turn around. There will be forgiveness on your lips.

Time will collapse backwards, until all things that were fissured are mended. Until our bodies join together again, hot as stars when they are born. We will be joined not just as lovers; but as we once were, in the ancient stone and soil of the earth. And even further back, so long ago there were no such things as bodies, or memory, stone, or soil. We will be joined as we once were in the primordial place beyond time, beyond death. That place of all being, all beginning, and all becoming.

There we will be again. 

You and I.

Dear Will.

Until then, I am faithfully,  ~~penitently~~  yours.

Yours.

Yours.

Yours.

\- Hannibal


	129. Purification

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will is moving on, for now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Originally posted here.](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/109773692838/purification)

In ancient Rome February was a month of purification, to cleanse oneself physically and spiritually for the year to come.

I suppose it’s appropriate to announce that [I broke up with Hannibal in January](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/108102879043/ooc-warnings-for-angst-thanks-to). I am still sort of reeling from it —the normal working through the end of an intimate relationship — but I think it was the only possible outcome, given what came betweenus.

I’ve also taken a leave of absence from work, which wasperhaps long overdue. Hannibal was always encouraging me to take a sabbaticalor some extended time off, and I finally (ironically) took that advice. Mostly I am lounging around my house in my pajamas tinkering with lures and boat engines and trying to get Abigail to go ice fishing with me.

She’s been busy too, of course. She had to move out of her apartment last week. She’s living with a friend from school now, [a nice woman and her son](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/108940417803/almost-like-hope-january-15-2015-timestamp). In exchange for cheap rent, Abigail is basically a live-in babysitter and helpmate around the house. Apparently the son resents Abigail being a babysitter, because he is a very mature  _ten years old_  and doesn’t need a babysitter. But if anyone could be depended on to ward off murderous killers and stay calm, it would be Abigail.

It just so happens Abigail has lured  _me_  out, but not for ice fishing. Her friend has two “grown-ups only” nights a month, on Saturdays. Her son goes over to a friend’s house for a sleepover, while she and her friends gather for hideous amounts of greasy and delicious food, beer, and play Cards Against Humanity while becoming increasingly drunk and less appropriate. So Abigail invited me to the last one, and it was an adventure.

I might also have met someone there. At least, I think that’s what it means when said someone calls you the next day and attempts to ask you on a movie date.

Is  _The Hobbit: The Battle of Five Armies_ any good? I’ve somehow managed to miss all the Hobbit films, but don’t tell my date. I’m a champ at ruining prospects, so I’d rather not spoil things too early.

* * *

 

[OOC: [ASKS BE OPEN](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/ask). \o/ Thank you for your patience and understanding.

Asks will be open on the first week of each month, from the 1st to the 7th. :3 We’ll see how that goes. If it works for readers and works for me, then huzzah. :D

Reminder that all asks go to Will, as they do for regular asks, as opposed to [the Q and A in January](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/search/q+and+a).

Also, updates will be on Fridays. I tried getting things up on Wednesdays/Thursdays, but found I usually have too much going on during those days, so Fridays it is.]


	130. Medical (Daddy) Help

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Have you ever had an erection lasting more than 4 hours? And had to seek medical help?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Originally posted here.](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/109796911933/have-you-ever-had-an-erection-lasting-more-than-4)

> **Have you ever had an erection lasting more than 4 hours? And had to seek medical help?**

 

I …  _no. No no no no_ and  _no._ I don’t even want to  _think_ about that. Not only is that  _completely wrong_ but also:  _god no._

An erection lasting that long literally  _kills cells in your dick_ and can make it so that you can never have another erection again, and obviously I prefer never to think about this.

I will say, however, that, Hannibal and I had our share ofmedical kink from time to time. It seemed to please Hannibal to have power over me in that way. He liked it when I would lie on his “table”, usually in some kind of gown, pressing his hands over me in a cool, businesslike manner while he “examined” me. Sometimes said “examination” may have involved his fingers, or tongue, or cock inside of me, to ensure that everything was “working properly”. Sometimes I had mysterious mouth lesions that needed tending to and required me to suck his cock (it was some kind of unorthodox but  _effective_ treatment).

Mostly though, I’m reminded of some ageplay we did, once upon a time. I was feeling particularly brattish one afternoon, and so went to Hannibal’s office when I knew he wouldn’t have patients, but would nonetheless be working. I might have stroked myself to hardness in my car and then gone to his office and barged right in — after barely a knock, and not even waiting for Hannibal to say “come in”.

"Will?" Hannibal blinked at me from behind his desk and a tidy stack of paperwork, incredulous that I could be so, well,  _rude._

"Daddy," I said, in my most plaintive brat voice.

Hannibal noted both my voice and my hard-on, and frowned.

"Will, I’ve told you this is not the time or the place —"

"But Daddy, my . . . it won’t stop …" I said, walking up to him and grabbing my cock through my pants.

"Your penis, Will," he said. "It’s your penis. Or cock."

"My … penis won’t … it feels …"

Hannibal sighed. By rights he probably ought to have spanked me for my behavior, but there were some things he was always good about, and he usually understood that when I resorted to my most bratsome behavior it meant I needed attention, and he should listen rather than punish.

"Come here, my sweet boy," he said, turning the chair and holding his arms out. I curled in his lap — no mean feat because I am not that much shorter, and not all that small — and let him cradle me to him.

"How long has your penis been hard?" he asked, gently cupping me through my pants.

"Since morning," I said. Not really a lie, I suppose. It was a scene, but, I’d missed him that morning. Missed him something horrible. I think I dreamt that he’d died and I would never see him again. So naturally all I wanted to do was to touch him, to feel him, to hear him, and know he was there, after all, that he wasn’t disappearing any time soon. So since morning, I’d been dragging around my ache and apprehension, my need, which finally turned to frustration, impatience, and then, brattiness.

"All morning?" he smiled. "That seems a little long, Will," he chided, running his fingers through my hair.

"I missed you Daddy," I mumbled.

"Dear boy, I missed you too," he said, stroking me through my pants, kissing me on my lips, my throat.

"Do you want Daddy to show you how to take care of yourself when you’re hard?" he whispered, lips warm and wet.

"Yes, Daddy, please," I said, wriggling against him.

He hummed — a sound of pleasure and contentment — as he unzipped my jeans and gently put his hand inside my boxer-briefs, just touching me with his fingertips.

"Oh," I gasped.

"Do you like that?"

"Yes, Daddy."

He spent some moments simply touching me, running his fingers over my shaft, cupping my balls, his other hand caressing me under my button up and t-shirt.

"Daddy," I cooed.

He kissed me, soft and close-mouthed.

"Such a good boy," he said, fingers tightening around me.

I shuddered.

"Make sure you pay attention so you can take care of yourself when this happens again."

"Yes Daddy," I nuzzled against him, watching his wrist dip and sway beneath the waste of my boxer-briefs, feeling his large, competent hand stroking me, his thumb swiping that sensitive spot beneath the head of my cock.

"Oh fuck," I said, my precum sticky on fingers and thumb already.

"Naughty," Hannibal said, nipping my lower lip.

"Daddy it feels so good," I said, opening my mouth and kissing him hungrily, greedily, while his hand tightened on me.

"Good boy," he said into my lips, as the orgasm shivered through me. I came with a little yelp which his lips and tongue muffled.

I broke the kiss, letting myself slacken, but he held me with one arm while he licked my cum from his hand.

"Daddy," I said, trying to be scandalized, but far too weightless and boneless, really. I curled back against him while he sucked cum from his thumb.

"Do you understand now," he asked, running his hand through my hair again. "Do you know what you should do when your cock becomes hard?"

I began to nod, but thought better of it.

"I think so, Daddy, but …" I pulled my face away from his throat and bit my lip, looking up at him through my lashes. That look always made him crazy, really; he’d smile down at me as if I were both the most appetizing thing in the world, and the most marvelous.

"I think you should show me again, Daddy," I said.

"Of course," he said. "Practice makes perfect, after all."


	131. Scars

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> But I need to ask, who are you going on a date with? :3 How did you meet?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Originally posted here.](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/109810503728/will-you-have-been-breaking-my-heart-but-i-need)

[OOC: You guys know the drill. The top is Will’s “real” answer, below the second break, is more of the details.

He knows Hannibal is probably reading this, so there are things that he will leave out for that reason.]

 

* * *

 

>   **Will, you have been breaking my heart. But I need to ask, who are you going on a date with? :3 How did you meet? Oh, and regarding the movie, just make sure to hit the bathroom beforehand. It's a long one.**

 

I  didn’t realize that my intimate relationships would somehow break anyone else’s heart but my own, but I’ll take that as you being concerned. 

The date, mmmm, well.

We met last night at the adult’s only party at Abigail’s new home. He is a friend of her friend, Molly. His name is Frank and he’s a fine, tall drink of water, as they say. Taller than Hannibal even, incredibly handsome,  _built_. I don’t think I’ve been with a man this good looking in awhile (and Hannibal was, don’t get me wrong, but objectively some people are just — words fail me —  _amazingly_  good looking no matter who you ask; Frank is one of those guys).

He’s also, from what I gather, usually very shy. He works as a media specialist (it’s what they call librarians now, apparently) for the children’s section of a local library. 

And  _god-damn_ , did I mention he was really incredibly good looking?

Thanks for the tip on the movie by the way. Duly noted. 

 

* * *

 

**January 31, 2015**

On Molly's back porch, the night air is so cold that it cuts like razors. I feel his presence before I see him. Even in the thin golden light coming through the sliding glass patio doors, his skin is pale as bleached bones, his hair black as the starless night above. There's something remote and pitiless about him; there's something incredibly vulnerable and full of  _need_ about him.

Out here, he's different than when he was sitting at Molly's kitchen table. The townhouse is a little cramped, everything piled on top of everything. I hadn't said anything, of course, especially to Abigail, who seemed happy to have a new home. But in Molly's little rectangle of a kitchen, he was so huge he looked like he might shatter the ceiling. Broad shouldered, tall, taller than Hannibal, and doubtlessly stronger, if the thick cords of muscle shifting beneath his button-up were any indication. Sitting at Molly's table, beer and food and cards spread all around us, he looked painfully hedged in -- like a panther in a cramped cage -- wedged between that wobbly table, the fridge, and Reba. He'd been so close to Reba, in fact, that their knees must have been scraping under the table, and he barely had to lean over to whisper in her ear as we drew and played our cards.

"Fuckers don't make a Braille version of Cards Against Humanity," Reba had explained.

"We used to arm wrestle to see who got to read for Reba. Reba always chooses the best cards," Molly explained. "But Frank likes to hog her all to himself."

He'd only smiled and it was the kind of smile that made me nervous for some reason.

On Molly's back porch now, though -- ducking out to get some fresh air, to get away from people -- he's powerful. Not at all caged in, and his silence, his awkwardness and shyness have transformed themselves to something else, something almost predatory. He's potent; vast as the starless, moonless night, and his presence is suffocating.

I want to lean into it. I want to lose every aching, miserable, heartsick molecule of myself in him.

"Sorry, I didn't see you," I say, turning to go, because it's really best to run when I'm feeling like this. Maybe I'll go to Abigail later tonight, when everyone is gone and we've cleared away all the paper plates and emptied beer bottles. Maybe I'll let her curl against my chest and smell her sweet hibiscus shampoo, so I can forget a little.

"You should go back to Hannibal," she keeps saying. "He misses you."

I'm not sure I will ever understand Abigail and Hannibal's relationship; how he can threaten her life, and she can stab him, and they still act like they are friends, or don't want to kill each other. How she can go visit him and check up on him when I can't even do that. When I've blocked his calls and deleted his voicemail messages.

"I can't go back to him, Abi," I've said. "I need a clean break."

She bites her lip whenever I say this and just looks -- sad.

I wish she'd be snarky, or rude.

Frank says something I don't quite hear at first-- that scar on his lip is black as old blood in the dark.

"Don't," he says, louder. "You don't have to go."

Is it a plea? A request? I can't tell, but I'd like to find out for some reason.

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah," he says.

"I am not always good around a bunch of new people," I say, which is as much truth as I can muster.

"Yeah," Frank says.

"How do you know Molly?" I ask, stepping closer. He doesn't move away.

"Her husband," he says. "We were all in the army."

"She has a husband?" I ask, because she'd never said anything about him.

"She did," Frank says, matter-of-fact as if he'd said it was cold out.

"Oh."

"Died in Afghanistan. I was -- with him," Frank says.

"Shit. Sorry."

Frank shrugs. "It's done."

"How many tours?" I ask.

"Too many," he says.

"No shit."

"You're not former military," he scowls.

"Oh fuck no," I laugh. "No disrespect. It's more me. I would have problems -- following orders in that context."

He seems to relax a little.

"And killing people?" he asks.

"Oh, that's my bread and butter," I say. "I mean, I  _catch_  the people who kill people. Sometimes."

"Do you like that?"

"Sometimes," I lick my lips.

He nods.

"Hey you guys, we're starting another round. And tequila!" Molly laughs from inside.

"I'm sitting this one out," I say, my eyes not leaving Frank's face.

"Oh come  _on_ Professor!" Molly protests. "You need more of the biggest, blackest dick!"

"I have to go," Frank says. "Reba needs me."

"Someone else could read for her."

And probably I am being rude, and ostentatious, and a stupid fucking asshole. Probably. But I'm curious.

Frank freezes. The look he gives me could make someone who wasn't used to tracking killers -- well --  _sick._

"Maybe I don't pronounce things well --"

I laugh, which is probably incredibly dickish too.

"Oh  _no,_ Frank, I wasn't -- saying that at all. You speak beautifully. I was just saying you could stay out here if you wanted. I was enjoying our conversation. Sorry. But I understand, you need to go back to your girlfriend --"

"She's not my girlfriend," he says, but in a way that makes it precisely clear that Reba is not to be trifled with, no matter what she is.

"Seems like I can't say a damn thing without being an ass," I put my hands up.

"I say dumb things too," Frank replies, not moving towards the patio doors.

["Dolarhyde!" Molly bellows.](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/108940417803/almost-like-hope-january-15-2015-timestamp)

"I'm -- I'm staying too," he says, just loud enough.

"Graham, goddammit, stop stealing my guests!" Molly hoots.

"More big black dick for the rest of us then," Reba says.

"And nip nops," Abigail chimes.

Their voices seem far away though, because Frank looks at me like he'd enjoy cutting me open.

"I -- I have scars too," I say, and my voice sounds too high, almost frightened.

"Oh?"

"Yeah, I got stabbed. When I was a cop. In the shoulder. I can't really show you because it's cold out, but --"

He steps closer. I back up, against the railing, and we're out of view of the rest of the party; he's blocking out the light from the townhouse. His hands go around me, fingers ghosting up my spine.

"Here?" he asks, whispering in my ear. He smells like cigarettes and reams of fresh paper.

"Other shoulder," I answer, feeling his palm graze the spot through my clothes, fingers ghosting across the ridge of old scar tissue.

"There," I say and he looks at me -- approvingly? lustfully? -- before he leans down.

His lips and tongue are hot as blood, his teeth sharp as he nips my lower lip. And  _fuck_ why am I pushing up into this kiss and moaning in the back of my throat?

When we go back in, the party is mostly over after Reba cleaned everyone out with Abigail's help, and I sit there while the table is cleared, running my tongue over my razed lips, still feeling the kiss, his body coiling around me almost protectively.

"See you D," Molly says to Frank.

I'll just let this one go. I have to. Even if that kiss made me feel like a shattered cup in all the best possible ways.

But he's standing right next to me, tall and dark.

"Nice meeting you," he says and he looks anxious.

"Yeah. Uhm."

And I watch myself as I write out my phone number on a napkin and slide it to him. Abigail and Molly both look shocked too, and if Reba hadn't left I wonder what she might make of the silence in the kitchen.

He smiles, and it's a real smile, with beautiful, boyish crinkles around his mouth and eyes. That smile stays with him as he leaves.

Once he's gone and Molly is out of earshot, Abigail pinches me.

" _Ow._ "

"What are you  _doing?"_

I shrug. "Moving on. I guess."

She rolls her eyes at me. "Liar."

I can't say she's wrong, but sometimes you just have to run to something, or someone. It's sometimes the only way you can get away from what you've left.


	132. Something More Than Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Does anyone feel for Hannibal in this situation?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Originally posted here.](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/110386194518/why-forgive-abigail-for-lying-about-nicholas-boyle)

[OOC: Bless you [pugbug73](http://tmblr.co/mZLoe3noXEv8EuSERvanqFQ) <3\. Don’t worry, there are folk who are sorry for Hannibal. I personally find all the characters in this ‘verse a little ridiculous, but I’m the writer and I think it’s healthy and important to see people and their flaws as humorous and human, so.]

 

* * *

 

> **[pugbug73](http://pugbug73.tumblr.com/) said:  Why forgive Abigail for lying about Nicholas Boyle & not forgive Hannibal? Also, if the roles were reversed & Hannibal started fucking (& fell in love with) Abigail and you had to sit back and watch the man you love fall in love with someone else, how would you feel? (Does anyone feel for Hannibal in this situation? Because I do. Maybe I'm the only one but I stand by my feelings on the matter**

 

 _Oh,_  let me count the ways. 

  1. Abigail never made a formal agreement with me the way Hannibal did; Hannibal was my partner. Abigail was (and is) a different relationship, a much less formal relationship, but important its own way. It is a might unfair to compare the two, and hold them to the same exact standards, though, I abhor lying in any relationship. 
  2. Hannibal is an adult and has been an adult far longer than Abigail. She was —  _is_ — more vulnerable than say, myself, who has both the advantages of age, experience, and well, my understanding of psychology. Abigail is very intelligent — there’s no doubt of that — but it’s a far easier thing to emotionally coerce someone like her than say, me. So Hannibal not only lied to me  _for months,_ but also coerced someone else into it. 
  3. If the roles were reversed I would probably be potently jealous, that is for sure. But that’s not really an excuse to attack someone, either, nor to try and meddle with their relationship. But really, with Hannibal, it comes down to petty insecurity. Which is horribly ironic. Do I love Abigail? Yes. But I also loved James (an [aforementioned ex](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/94170012588/would-you-ever-consider-hooking-up-with-trans-men)) and I also loved and cared for many people before Hannibal, and probably many people after. The difference is that Hannibal is Hannibal. My love for him is … beyond unquestionable in my mind. And always will be. I can’t speak for him, of course. But I will be carrying him and my love for him with me, every day, for the rest of my life. So if he wants to doubt that, he can. If he thinks that my — falling in love with Abigail — would ever change that, or could even come close to threatening that, then, by all means, he can doubt. 
  4. Of course I feel for him, and so does Abigail, and many of his friends. But that doesn’t mean I’m going to get back together with him, call him, or speak to him now or any time in the future. The one thing I’ve learned is that my empathy disorder makes it very, very easy for me to go crawling back to my exes. The number of times I’ve done so actually shames me, and I would rather run a cheese grater over my genitals than repeat that mistake even one more time. Of course I feel for him; he was my whole life for a little more than a year, though it felt like much longer to me (lifetimes and lifetimes longer). But I can’t indulge in those feelings any more, because, well, that time is done, and our relationship is over.



All of this is pretty much the nuts and bolts of the situation, at least from my perspective. I am sure Hannibal has his own perspective. 

But really, pugbug73, and readers, you should also probably understand: _The Beatles fucking lied to you_.

All due respect to Lennon and McCartney, but, honestly, if love were enough Hannibal and I would never had any issues whatsoever. If love were enough the world would be a happier place, let me tell you. But love isn’t enough. There should also be things like honesty and trust and faith in each other. 

Love on its own isn’t enough. 


	133. Magnified and Muffled (Library Sex)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When you're out in public with Hannibal acting as a teenager, has he ever tried to convince you to be a little reckless or engage in some public displays, more than just affection?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Originally posted here.](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/110940322503/will-when-your-out-in-public-with-hannibal-acting)

> **Will- when you're out in public with Hannibal acting as a teenager, has he ever tried to convince you to be a little reckless or engage in some public displays, more than just affection?**

 

Not that he had to do much convincing in regards to public displays (I do so like being watched and seen), but, I suppose this is a good a time as ever to recount the story of how I once sodomized teen Hannibal in a library.

I won’t disclose  _which_ library … that could actually present Hannibal with a bit of a professional snafu, but suffice to say it was one of those sprawling, musty university libraries, with towering stacks, cheap study cubicles with hairy dicks scrawled all over them, and deep, echoing basements of forgotten archives, card catalogs, and broken projectors. 

It was a treat for teen Hannibal. The library visit, not the sodomy  _per se._ After [that punishment I meted out on him](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/97062529493/does-hannibal-ever-call-you-daddy) for unwarranted insolence, he was astonishingly good. He was considerate, and thoughtful, and kept his anger in check and found better ways to express that -- for a little while at least. 

One day, after telling him how proud I was of him, I asked him what he would like to do as a reward for his good behavior. 

Teen Hannibal, being Hannibal, wanted to visit the special collections of a university library, where he could show me some rare books and manuscripts on medicine. He wanted to show off to me, I think, but Hannibal always had a captive audience in me and I didn't mind in the least. I enjoyed it when he showed off to me, and especially enjoyed it when teen Hannibal wanted to show off.

Because of Hannibal’s profession and his prestige in the field of medicine, and because he knew the special collections librarian, he was allowed some additional access. Wearing gloves, he was allowed to actually cradle one of those rare tomes, made delicate by nearly 300 years of its existence, and turn a few of the dry, feather light pages, showing me the scrawl and drawings another doctor had made, all those years gone. He told me that the field of medicine was very crude then, of course, but he marveled still at the insights and advances people made when they knew so little, comparatively.

"Can you imagine," he whispered to me, his breath against my throat, warm with knowledge and his fervor. "Can you imagine what we will know in 300 more years? How utterly barbaric and rudimentary our own treatments will seem?"

It was a thought that would have been too pedestrian for adult Hannibal, but for this teen who was with me that day, it was an honest admission, tinged only with wonder.

He looked at me to see if I was pleased. Adult Hannibal is less needy (outwardly, at least), but teen Hannibal, despite his coarseness and bursts of temper, is quite blatant about looking to me for approval.

And when he looked at me then, having asked  _can you imagine?_ , his eyes were very dark, and soft. Wanting and vulnerable. He needed me to tell him he was a smart boy, an exceptional boy, and that I loved his passion. It wasn't that difficult to tell him, because all of those things were true for me.

I grazed the small of his back with my knuckles and felt him tremble with pleasure.

"Maybe you will make some of those advances," I murmured into his ear.

He actually blushed faintly, those sharp cheeks softened, and his smile was radiant.

"Maybe," he said, placing the book lovingly, delicately back down in its case, and locking the case very carefully, to ensure the book would be properly sealed away in its temperature controlled environs.

This is what shocked me the most about that day: how gentle teen Hannibal was with that book. How reverent.

This gentleness also aroused me, of course. And as he peeled off the gloves and met my gaze, he swallowed hard, like a nervous, virginal teen and not the man who could make me come with a simple flick of his wrist.

"Daddy?" he whispered, the word almost swallowed by the silence.

"What do you want?" I whispered in return, stepping closer. I maneuvered him into a nearby alcove, where the shadows would be just dark enough to obscure us if someone wasn't looking close enough, though, I could hear footfalls moving through the nearby bookshelves.

"Do you want Daddy to suck your cock?" I kissed his temple. In spite of his bravado, teen Hannibal always stooped a little, which I found harrowing. It was hard see such a broad shouldered, graceful man curl in on himself as if he were ashamed or afraid. It could almost make me forget teen Hannibal's viciousness at times.

His stooping, however, also made it easier to press kisses to his temple, or his lips.

"No," he said. "I don't want you to suck my cock, Daddy. I want you to fuck me."

The special collections librarian had gone to lunch and we had maybe fifteen minutes by then. I cocked my head at him, in askance.

"I want you to fuck me," he repeated, louder, and we both jumped at that, wasting precious seconds, wondering if anyone heard him.

I nodded.

"Turn around," I told him. He obeyed, and I clamped my hand around his mouth, leaning in quickly to kiss and nip his neck, before undoing his belt. The clank of metal was shockingly loud. I paused there, his pants beginning to sag, exposing a stripe of pale flesh, before running my fingers along that stripe, back over his hips, then down into his pants and between his cheeks. I felt the puff of his breath against my hand as I circled his entrance with my fingertips.

"I won't fuck you dry," I nuzzled him, withdrawing my fingers and then sucking them.

He moaned into my hand, a low sound that made my cock jump. My cock jumped too, as I slid a wet finger into him and felt him gasp.

"Ssssh," I murmured into his throat. "You have to be quiet my sweet boy."

He nodded, but his whole body quivered with the effort of silence as I slid a second finger in him.

He was warm and just this side of tense, and I worked my fingers patiently as I could, pressing and curling, feeling him tighten now and again, and then, finally relax, until his body sagged, and he pressed his hips back against mine.

Maybe five minutes, if we were lucky, I thought. Somewhere nearby a cough, the rustle of pages, and footsteps as I unzipped my own pants, pulled out my cock, and sank into him, quick, and deep.

The tendons in his neck stood out as I pushed into him, and I felt the way his lips trembled with the noises he wanted to make.

And how I fucked him there. His legs spread just enough, his body flush against the wall. I fucked him, every sound magnified and muffled at once. His body hot against mine through our clothes, the sweat sticking to my shirt collar and stomach, his cock thick and pulsing in my free hand as I stroked him in time to my short, hard thrusts.

I could hear the loud  _clop clop clop_ of the special librarian's footsteps coming down the hall as I buried myself one last time, and came, muffling my own cries in his shoulder. He finished soon after, biting my hand and shuddering.

We were still trying to collect ourselves furtively in that alcove when the special collections librarian came in and called Hannibal's name a few times.

She didn't say anything -- maybe she honestly didn't notice how flush we were, or how Hannibal's hair was mussed, or the burning red bite mark in my palm -- but more likely she was being polite (and embarrassed) and pretending nothing was amiss.


	134. Siren

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I believe in a way Will that you would be more a Siren, a dangerous yet beautiful creature who lured men from the sea.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Originally posted here.](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/111812222288/i-believe-in-a-way-will-that-you-would-be-more-a)

 

> **I believe in a way Will that you would be more a Siren, a dangerous yet beautiful creature who lured men from the sea. While sirens were femme fatales, I surmise that you would be the exceptional rare creature.**

 

Well,  _kind_ stranger, it is difficult to argue with such a flattering portrait of yours truly. Thank you for that, and let me express my gratitude to yourself and to other readers here with a little thought experiment, if you will.

I am sure that you might find me particularly ravishing if you were to discover me in your bed, naked, and displayed just for your pleasure, my skin creamy and rosy by turns against the sheets. I am sure that you might also be — piqued — to watch as I stroked myself. You could enjoy the way the color rises in my cheeks and chest, the way my nipples harden, and the way my cock swells and stiffens in my hand, the head red and tender, just begging to be touched or sucked. I am sure you might even enjoy putting your mouth on that head, running your tongue over the sensitive little slit and tasting my precum.

Perhaps though, that is not to your liking. Perhaps you want your  _fatale_ on his hands and knees, spreading my cheeks so you can see my wet, open entrance. Ready and willing for you, of course. I can take either quick, deep thrusts, or slow, shallower thrusts, whichever is your fancy. Either way, I am spread beneath you, trembling, waiting for you to fill me again and again.

You might also enjoy me on my back, stroking my cock while you’re inside me in some fashion. With fingers? With a toy? With your cock? Maybe you’re between my thighs and rubbing us together while I moan into your mouth.

Maybe you prefer this siren with my hands bound, obedient and saying “thank you” while you flog me. You’d be rewarded with the sight of my skin, glowing pink and crimson, knowing you’d painted me in such a pleasing way.  

It could be that you want me between your thighs, just nuzzling and teasing you, until, ever so slowly and carefully, I begin to pleasure you with my mouth. All the while I would be looking right up at you, watching.

And perhaps, perhaps, you want me snarling, my cock hard and throbbing, pushing just enough of our clothes out of the way to fuck you against the wall as I growl how much I want this, how much I want you.

There are so many possibilities, I cannot even begin to list them here. But whatever the flavor or preference you have for this particular siren, you are most welcome to imagine at your leisure.

[OOC: Keep your eyes peeled this week. Some plotty posts + angst + porn, including Hannibal’s memory palace, bootblacking, teen!Hannibal, and some Abigail domming Will, are all coming your way! :D 

\- mresundance]


	135. All the Palace Chambers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Have you heard anything about how Hannibal has been dealing with the breakup?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Originally posted here.](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/111962045018/have-you-heard-anything-about-how-hannibal-has)

[OOC: Don’t take this personally anon, Will is a dick, and he’s more distraught than he appears.

Also, your question Will be more thoroughly addressed below the second break, in Hannibal’s own point of view. :D

Mentions of death, murder bonerstuff, tense changes. Hannibal’s memory palace is, of course, based on the [Cathedral of Palermo](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Palermo_Cathedral),which is in the seaside city of Palermo, on the island of Sicily, in Italy.]

 

* * *

 

It’s strange; there is this voodoo like magic about breaking up. You don’t have to worry about that other person, and suddenly you’re not part of each other’s lives in the same way; it’s almost like the break-up signified the end of your relationship or something.

_Go figure._

To answer your question though: from what I have gleaned in the last weeks, I think it was safe to say, that, for a little while at least, Hannibal was dealing with it by  _not_  dealing with it. I assume this mostly because Hannibal was leaving me voicemail messages almost daily. I deleted them without listening to a single one, but it was frequent enough that Frank, [who I’ve only just started seeing casually](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/109810503728/will-you-have-been-breaking-my-heart-but-i-need), noticed and commented that it was “borderline stalker”, and I have to say I didn’t disagree. But I know — knew — Hannibal and I knew he might be like this if we broke up. So I ignored him because he had to understand I meant what I said and that we were done.

Fortunately he stopped leaving messages right before Valentine’s Day, and I haven’t heard from him since.

For awhile Alana and Abigail were helping him as he recovered. Alana especially would tell me things, sometimes amidst comments like  _why would you break up with him Will_ and  _talk to him, he misses you terribly._ I told her to stop because it wasn’t frankly her business, and I didn’t  _want_ to know how he was, beyond “not dead”. Abigail pretty much kept anything about Hannibal’s condition to herself, saying she didn’t want to be caught in the middle again.

So all I really know is that he’s recovering from the injury which put him in the hospital on New Year’s, and he’s stopped calling me. As for anything going on on that labyrinth of his mind, of his psyche — dare I say his soul, even? — or his memories — well. Your guess would be as good as mine at this point.

As long as he’s alive and doing well, relatively speaking, I don’t need to know anything more. That’s what being broken up  _is._

 

* * *

 

**All the Palace Chambers**

**February 12, 2015**

**Hannibal**

 

It’s necessary, always, when ascending into the recesses of the old crypt and beyond, to take my time. Hesitance does not mean I love her any less, nor does it mean I am any less glad to see her at the end of the journey. It is not reluctance so much as savoring, relishing what is to come.

The sands are golden as lightly toasted almonds, and the sea is warm and sapphire today. My reflection, though faint, is clear enough: silvers and grays, rippling across the sands. It’s an auspicious day for a visit up to the city, and my cathedral.  

The slopes leading up to the city streets are steep at first, but then the way becomes easier. The city streets wind and wind around each other, like snakes chasing their own tales. The cobblestones radiate the sunlight, their umber hues contrasting the cerulean sky. The columns of the cathedral are still strong after nearly a thousand years, pale as bone, the palm trees outside rustling prettily as I approach the foyer.

Inside the gold of the domes blazes like a sunset, but even that light cannot pierce all shadows.

He is there, in nearly every alcove. But each one of him is different, unique as the moment in which I experienced that part of him.

The first version of him I encounter is besotted with me. When I approach, he bats his lashes and unfurls his body, coquettish and deeply arousing. I resist his temptations though — that sleek little mongoose in his guise as a siren — resist the feel of his rosy lips and the memory of his body pressing to mine.

The next version he sleeps, peacefully, naked, his body laid bare. I must admit I do pause, watching him murmur, the way his muscles tense and relax as he dreams. I allow my eyes to trace the line of his waist, his hip, the cleft of his buttocks.

There is Will spread below me, his mouth parted as I sank down into him.

There is Will looking up at me, as his tongue swirled around the head of my cock before he took me into his mouth.

If I had to made a choice between seeing the works of great Renaissance painters, or, Will as he orgasms, I would forgo Botticelli for the rest of my life.

In another memory, his body vibrates desire and passion while I watch him straddling another man. He looks at me over his own shoulder as he comes. Later, Will would admit he’d been thinking of strangling the man to death while he rode him, and that thought had brought him to orgasm. I told him it would have been fitting, and I was well pleased that he was being more forthright about his desires.

I’d hoped he would continue making progress with that.

But he is not only a great beauty externally, and I’m gladly reminded of this when I see him in other memories. He sits across from me in my office, smiling at an obscure joke I’ve made, which he not only understood, but appreciated. He lies curled next to me in bed, and for hours the only sound was our whispers in the dark, our words caressing one another. How many afternoons did we spend in each other’s company, fully clothed but engaged in some kind of intellectual intercourse, our minds becoming more and more entwined?

This is what made him a prize when he surrendered to me. His eyes might have become unfocused when we shared our pleasures, but the mind behind those eyes was ever scalpel sharp, and ever mercurial.

There too, is Will: the squirming brat boy who’d I’d spanked; the deceptively mousey teacher, with that tie that should have been immolated years ago; the smiling, happy man with his dogs; the willful submissive who was, nevertheless, always at his core obedient and thoughtful, who brought me my coffee exactly as I liked without having to reminded or asked, and blushed with pride when I praised him; the gentle, patient man who endured my most obscure metaphors in order to reach me, again and again; the quiet, contented man wading into the flickering hazel waters of the stream, where he would vanish for hours, for whole lifetimes, and come back refreshed and renewed.

My Will. My darling boy. My handsome man. My partner. My mercurial heart, with a thousand versions of himself to give me, and never once predictable, or even the same. In every corner of my memory palace he lingers, presenting temptation after temptation.

The temptation to keep calling him and speaking to the dead air, the silence, knowing he wouldn’t pick up, he wouldn’t even listen any longer.

The temptation to go to his house, hold him down and have him, reclaim him.

The temptation to strangle him as I finish inside him.

The temptation to cut him open and taste and feel him all over me again.

The temptation to fall on my hands and my knees and —  _beg_.

_Please, Will._

_Please._

But I won’t. That is not my purpose today.

So I sidle past each memory, and each vanishes, as if no more than a mere specter, as if they had never been real.

There is the crypt, and there are holes in the floors of every mind.

In the crypt he’s twined in an embrace with Abigail, his white haunches flexing as he buries himself inside her again. In the crypt I am teaching her how to use my lightest flogger on him. I’m incensed by the fact I had trusted her at all, ever, that I was such a fool to let her touch him, flog him,  _see_ him at all in such a way. He is  _mine._

In the crypt, I imagine him saying he loves her and is leaving me for her.

[In the crypt, I remember him rejecting the collar I’d had made for him, for us.](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/106153946393/ooc-christmas-timestamp-warnings-for)

In the crypt, I see how many times I could have lost control. Each time he is dead and covered in blood. Usually the blood is his, but sometimes mine mingles with his. Sometimes too, I am dead with him.

In the crypt I avoid my reflections, my own face, pinched and miserly and foreign to me. If I look too closely as I have in the past, I can see my own anger, my desperate need, my yearning. But most of all I can see fear, black toothed and bottomless. Fear that he would leave me, that I would be all alone again.

But that place is near the end, where the darkness peels away like old dead flesh, and the doors and the walls of the old crypt and the cathedral give way. The garden and the woods wait, verdant, and pungent with the smell of rain, of life. I can hear the crickets again, as I walk through the long, peridot blades of wild wheat, and the music of the bees leads me to back to her.

“Hannibal,” she says and her hair is yet golden as the center of a daisy.

“Mischa,” I say, kneeling so she can clamber into my arms again. She still smells like crocus flowers before they bloom in the spring, and she is small and still hot as sunlight in my arms, but she feels lighter each time I come to see her. Sometimes I worry she will vanish altogether and — what then? So I hold her tightly to me and rock her and tell her I love her.

“Hannibal you’re hurting me,” she wriggles. I let her go, albeit reluctantly. I sweep the debris of old leaves and moss from a tree stump and sit, watching her.

“You haven’t visited me for awhile,” she says, rolling in the grass and staining her dress.

“No, I’m sorry, sweetheart.” The Lithuanian is harder each time, and I should practice when I’m not with her.

She shrugs. “I know you love me.” She crouches in the grass and looks up at me, openly, the way only a child can.

“You are sad,” she says.

“I am very sad,” I say.

“Why?” she grasps my hand in her own, her fingers and palm grubby with dirt.

“Remember that man I told you about? The one I love?”

“Will Graham,” she says excitedly.

“Yes, sweetheart. He left me. He hurt me.”

“Why did he do that?” she says, climbing into my lap and nestling against my chest.

“He said I broke a promise. That I lied.”

“Did you?”

The shadows in the woods stretch out longer and longer, and the air begins to cool as the sky dims. Still she sits on my lap and plays with the buttons my waistcoat. She sits and she waits.

“Yes,” I whisper, as Venus begins to shine between the lindens and elms.

“Why did you lie?”

“I thought he might … I wanted him to be mine.”

“He  _was_  though.”

“I thought me might leave me if I didn’t lie. That he would leave me like … Momma and Poppa. Like — Aunt Murasaki. Like you,” I say, and though my words are faint as smoke, she still hears them.

My Mischa always hears.

“I’ve never left you,” she says.

“No,” I agree, clutching her tightly. Each year it is harder and harder to remember the sound of her laughter.

“You shouldn’t lie, silly,” she says, much the same way she used to chide me when were children.

“I know.”

“Are you going to tell him you’re sorry?”

“I don’t know.”

“I think you should.”

It’s dark now, and cold, and she should be inside, wrapped up tightly against the night and the chill. Instead she puts her fingers to my cheek and uses my own handkerchief to wipe my tears.

“It’s going to be fine, Hannibal,” she says, and stands up — on tip toes — to kiss me on the forehead. Just as I’d kissed her once, hundreds of times.

“It’s going to be fine.”

The woods are quiet and she is gone then; I am alone.

Though I am no longer in my mind palace, it will take some time for the silence and emptiness of my house to press down around me. For  _this_ time and this place to seem real to me.

It’s not time to call Will, though that has been my habit. It’s time now to let him be. To give him time and space. To think about what Mischa has told me. And to plan.

Will lured me once. Perhaps, this time, I can lure him.


	136. What You Want

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Our lives are all tangled up in each other, in Hannibal._ Abigail weighs in on the weeks since Will and Hannibal's break up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Originally posted here.](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/112137780108/what-you-want-february-21-timestamp)

[OOC: The only "warnings" in this is that Abigail seems to be getting murder boners now, but that is not a surprise to me. There is also Abigail domming Will a bit, and using a strap-on on him.]

* * *

**What You Want**

**February 21**

**Abigail**

 

Will's not as much fun, which maybe isn't fair. I wasn't a lot of fun when Will and Hannibal met me, especially to Will. Even after we started sleeping together I wasn't always nice to him. I didn't want to get too attached, I guess. A lot of good that did.

He's just quieter and smells like whiskey. It's like his light has been snuffed out. I can't stay in his house with him for too long. It's all dark and mournful, and he mostly sits around being grumpy. Even though the snow is nearly thigh deep in the drifts, I'd rather be outside with his dogs, fishing Buster and Zoe out when they get stuck.

Will's so glum and he never wants to talk about who he is thinking about, which is usually Hannibal.

Hannibal, Hannibal, Hannibal.

Our lives are all tangled up in each other, in Hannibal. I could move away, [forget I ever killed Nicholas Boyle](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/107467089498/quid-pro-quo-december-31st-timestamp) and ever slept with Will. I could get married and have a normal life with 2.5 kids and that white picket fence crap and I would still be tangled up with them somehow.

Molly says I shouldn't be such a fatalist, but it's not like I don't have a choice. It's just that I also know what I can't avoid.

I wish Will could figure that out though. I wish he'd stop sulking and just  _talk_ to Hannibal. Hannibal is nearly as miserable as Will, sulking around and writing really drippy compositions for his harpsichord and playing sad music -- some kind of requiem mass -- and making  _funeral_ food for nearly every meal. I can stand Will because he at least laughs now and again and seems happy with Frank, but Hannibal is so over the top it's just ridiculous and he doesn't even notice how ridiculous he is being.

Alana and I have had it with the both of them, really. Molly says men are useless and have a habit of dying. If Will and Hannibal both died right now, it would at least put them and everyone around them out of their misery.

But even just watching Will is sad. Like right now, while he's gathering up files on his kitchen table. He keeps brushing curls out of his face while he tries to collect the files, but then he keeps dropping them and he just looks lost and pitiful.  

The file he's currently holding reads  _Marlow_ , and a picture slides out. There's a dark haired woman in the picture, lying in a pool of blood. The blood is so shiny it reflects her chalky face. Maybe I shouldn't be so fascinated by it. Maybe I should be more horrified, or it should remind me of lying on the kitchen floor in my own blood.

That seems like a long time ago, though, and that's what really shocks me. Like maybe another person got her throat slit, and not me. In a way, that is true. I am different now.

"Sorry," he says, grabbing the photo and sliding it into an envelope. "That's supposed to be confidential."

"Nicely macabre," I tell him. "You gonna frame it?"

"Ha,  _no,_ " he says after putting he files away. He sits down to finish his whiskey. "It's just some old cold case files I'm looking at."

Instead of calling him a dumbass -- which he kind of is -- I squeeze his shoulder. 

"You're supposed to be taking a break," I say.

But it's a mistake, touching him like that. It's more like a girlfriend touch, and not just a friend's touch. The line between friendship and . . .  something else . . . is really thin here. I don't like it, but then, it does excite me.

He sighs and leans into my touch.

"I  _am_  on a break," he says, taking my hand and kissing my knuckles.

I don't know. I don't know what's in me these days.[ I told him we were friends with benefits](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/108940417803/almost-like-hope-january-15-2015-timestamp), but I have -- other needs too. Beyond just friendship and, well, sex. I have so many needs I don't even know where to start.

Even though it's been a few weeks since the last time we were together, I get -- wet --thinking of him. Sometimes I'll be on the bus, on the way to class, and I'll think of him inside me, moaning my name, coming inside me. I'll think of Hannibal sitting there watching too. He never did, but it excites me for some reason to think about that. I have to stop in the bathroom before going to class, or I'll spend the entire class period fidgeting and rocking in my chair, feeling so -- aroused -- I can't even concentrate.

Other times I just want Will there. I want him and Hannibal, actually. I want the both of them to just hold me, and tell me it's going to be all right. Even if they did, I know they'd be lying through their teeth. But sometimes I just want to be lied to, and held.

Then sometimes I  . . . remember Hannibal teaching me how to flog Will. How to move my wrist just the right way to make Will twitch and moan beneath me.

And I loved how warm Will's skin was when I used the strap-on. The sounds he made when I had him like that, on his hands and knees.

Both these memories make me wet too, but in a different way than thinking of him inside of me. Both made me feel powerful. If I think too much about it then I don't even go into class, because I can't think  _at all_.

But Will and I are supposed to be friends, first and foremost. The last couple weeks apart have made me think maybe it's just best to be friends only. I shouldn't really encourage him or respond to his touches. [Will's trying to date Frank and all](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/109810503728/will-you-have-been-breaking-my-heart-but-i-need), and I don't want to get stuck in the middle of something again.

Yet, when he kisses my knuckles, I know this is something I can't avoid either. And I don't want to. I spent nearly twenty years of my life avoiding the truth of my father, and my mother. They both died anyways, and I am still fucked up. Avoiding didn't save them, and neither will avoiding save me.

I stroke his curls and he murmurs, leaning back, exposing his throat. I could cut him open right here, and Will would be dead before he knew what had even happened to him.

Having that kind of power over him excites me. I know it shouldn't, but it does.

I put my hand on his throat and feel his pulse, thick and steady. I kiss him lightly and rub my hand between his thighs. I feel his breath become shallow against my lips.

"You're such a good boy," I nip his lower lip.

His eyes widen and he smiles.

"You think so?" he says, almost shy, and this makes want him more.

"Yeah," I say, running my fingers up his chest. When he's naked, I like his bare chest. I like touching his nipples and making him squirm.

"What do you want?" he asks. "Do you want me to fuck you?"

"No."

"Do you want me to use my mouth on you?"

"Not now, no."

"Do you want . . . to fuck me?"

" . . . Yes."

"You want me," he says, pressing his face to my chest, me through my shirt. "You want me to get on my hands and knees for you? To make myself ready for you?"

" _Yes,"_ my fingers are so tight in his curls he grimaces.

"Hmm," he hums, untangling us and standing. He  _slinks_ off to the bedroom.  

I like that he takes his clothes off for me, slowly. When he helps me with my own clothes, he doesn't really touch me unless I tell him, and I like that too. I like ordering him to suck my nipples and use his fingers on me before helping me with the strap-on.

I'm still not really used to the bobbing weight of the dildo between my legs, but Will helps me. He nuzzles my hip and my thighs as he shows me some adjustments, reminds me how the dildo should be seated so the base can rub against me.

"Such a good boy," I tell him again and he seems happy to be praised, and I like praising him.

"Can I suck your cock?" he asks. I laugh because I'd never thought of that before, but  _why not_? I say yes.

It goes right through me, the way his lips wrap around the blue-green dildo, gliding down the shaft, while he looks up at me. I can see why guys like this.

"Good boy," I say, because I don't know what else to say while he sucks and licks. I'm so wet, and  _throbbing_.  

After awhile, gets on his hands and knees in the bed, and begins to rub lubricant into himself with his fingers. He moans and he smiles at me as I watch, but he's not hard at all.

"Are you okay?" I ask.

"Yes --" he blinks. "I am. Do you not like it --?"

"I do, but you're . . ." I gesture.

He shrugs.

"It's okay."

"Are you sure?"

"It's fine Abigail."

"I don't want to do this if you're not into it."

"I'm  _into_ it," he says, but he sounds impatient now. "It's just not." He sighs and flumps down into his bed.

"Usually you'd be . . . really hard . . ." I say, gently. I crawl into bed with him and run my fingers down his spine.

"It's been going on for a few weeks," he says miserably.

"Huh?"

"The lack of  _erections_ ," he snaps.

"I never said --"

He huffs.

"It's not a big deal," he says. "It happens from time to time. You know."

I don't say anything because no, I don't know. All I really know about men and sex is through him.

"We can still finish if you want," he says.

I kiss his shoulders and hold him loosely, but close.

"Has this been going on with . . . Frank?" I ask.

"Frank and I . . ." he shrugs.

I shouldn't, but I laugh.

"What?" I asks.

"Are you turning into a monk or something?"

"Shut up," he says, but with humor in his voice.

We're quiet for awhile, and I can hear the dogs' muffled footfalls in the snow outside.  

"I miss him," he says finally and sounds empty. We both know who he is talking about, and there is nothing I can do to help.

"He misses you," I say after awhile.

He stiffens.

"Yeah, well," he says, turning and then kissing me, his tongue in my mouth, his hands on my hips, pulling me on top of him.

He doesn't get hard. He says it's not about him. I'm going to believe him today. As he tilts his hips and I push my dildo -- my cock -- into him, his legs against my shoulders, I think of hunting.

Being inside him feels like having control. It's the same kind of feeling I would have when hunting: sighting my prey and pulling the trigger, and watching the animal fall and die. It's like when I stuck my father's hunting knife into Nicholas Boyle and  _ended_ it.

There was a moment of quiet power, when I knew I had complete control, and that all was well.

So I like this: the way he gasps as I thrust into him. I like to hold him in my hand. Though he only becomes half hard, I still enjoy it. I like the way he whimpers when I find  _that_  spot inside of him. I like it too, when he rolls his hips to take me deeper.

It's best when I take off the strap on though. It's easier to touch myself with one hand while using the dildo on him with the other.

"Do you want me to come while I fuck you?" I ask him, and I'm shocked and elated that I said those words.

"If you want to," he says, while I straddle him.

"I want you to come for me. But if you can't, I want you to see me come on you."

"Fuck," he says.

I keep touching myself, and thrust the dildo deeper and harder into him. 

I do want him to come for me _._ Because of me. To have control over his body and his  pleasure in that way.

And thinking about that, of having power over him, I finish on him. It's messy and I can smell myself all over his stomach and thighs. But he never takes his eyes off me, not as I thrash against him and I probably look really weird and gross -- it's so embarrassing sometimes to look at someone when they're coming -- but he doesn't look away.

And neither do I this time.

He pulls the dildo out, slowly, and I hear it thud when it rolls onto the floor. Lying on his chest, I listen to his heart scamper like a wild, frightened thing. I vaguely imagine Hannibal here, watching, and somehow being pleased. I also imagine reaching inside Will's chest and cupping his heart in my hand. Of bending down to taste red, hot blood.

"You liked that?" he asks, his hands below my shoulder blades.

"Yes," I say.

"We'll have to do it again."

"I wish Hannibal were here," I say before I can stop myself.

He snorts.

"I liked it when he was teaching me how to . . . you know."

"I can teach you," Will says.

It's not the same, though.

"He has more experience," I say.

"That he does. Maybe you should ask him next time you visit him."

He sounds angry and confused. I guess I would be angry and confused about Hannibal and my relationship if I were him too.

We're alike, Hannibal and I. We think a lot alike. Sometimes we even admire each other. But we don't necessarily always  _like_  each other, either. It's like having two wild cats in the same space. Two wild cats that begrudgingly accept one another. We accept each other because we  _have to._ We both care about Will, and are trying to be nice to each other for his sake. Not that he would notice it right now.

So whatever. I might as well say what's been on my mind. Will and I did promise to be truthful.

"I want you to get back with Hannibal," I say. "I miss -- us. The three of us. We were like -- a family. A really weird, messed up family. But still."

Will laughs, a strained sound.

"We don't always get what we want."

I sigh and lay on top of him instead of slapping or pinching him, even if he would have deserved it.

Because he's right of course; I should know that better than most.


	137. Mistake

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For Will: IN what other ways have you punished a teenage Hannibal?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Originally posted here.](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/112140392693/for-will-in-what-other-ways-have-you-punished-a)

[OOC:Heh, this describes more dominant and submissive play than ageplay, really, but that’s the way twinky!Will and his Hannibal seem to roll.

You know the drill. The top portion, before the second break (* * *) is Will’s “official” answer, the bottom is stuff he kept out for reasons.

Brief mentions of punishment, including some light cock torture. Also safeword usage, and hints of childhood emotional and sexual abuse.

Also also: [bootblacking](http://www.submissiveguide.com/2013/02/what-is-boot-blacking/), albeit, improvised and probably not “correct” but.  _Bootblacking_. *heavy fucking breathing*

This got longer than I expected, but I rather liked the window into Hannibal’s psyche.]

 

* * *

 

>  
> 
> **For Will: IN what other ways have you punished a teenage Hannibal?**

 

Well, anon, let’s talk about bootblacking, and the worst mistake ever I made with teen Hannibal.

Yes, I could spank him until his ass and my palms were raw and livid; I could flog him with his favorite heavy flogger, fifty thick fells of leather on each head, which left him aching for days; I could tie him up and gag him with my cock and fuck him until he was begging me to stop; I could cane him until the backs of his thighs were striped red and white; I could apply nipple clamps and genital clamps; I could slap his cock, albeit open-palmed; I could pepper his ass with marks from a riding crop; I could tie him up and leave him for hours (in earshot, of course); I could do any number of these things and more, and it never made a damn bit of difference, and I never really enjoyed it because he would never, ever break for me, never, ever let go, so I might as well have been beating a brick wall with my bare fists, for all the good it would do in wrangling teen Hannibal.

Hannnibal told me that teen Hannibal was incorrigible, and encouraged me to be strict, even brutal. He said he enjoyed it, because the adults in his life didn’t given him enough boundaries or discipline as a teen — necessary, healthy boundaries. But I never acquired a taste for punishing teen Hannibal, even when he was his most wretched and depraved, and I was viciously angry with him. Maybe someone with more experience would have and would have been able to help him surrender and become more — obedient? — in that way.

At any rate, I discovered what I thought might work for me, and for him, and it was because one day Hannibal happened to mention that he was a champion bootblack. Hannibal was usually so — ostentatious — about his accomplishments I was shocked because he’d failed to mention it before. I asked him about it, and he only said bootblacking was something he’d done for so long — since he was a teen — that it was impossible for him  _not_ to be so accomplished at this stage, unless, indeed, he’d been very lazy about it all along. This was all he said about it, and with an air of neglect, as if he didn’t desire to discuss it further.

So, armed with this knowledge, I unfortunately chose to implement it one afternoon.

Teen Hannibal had harassed a man while we were pumping gas on the way back to my house. This stranger had the audacity to be rude to me. So teen Hannibal offered to eviscerate him, of course. I hauled teen Hannibal back to my house, and when we got there, I ordered him to go sit in my kitchen and kneel on the linoleum.  

He did so, very reluctantly, and only after a few open palmed slaps. I told him to  _stay —_ which teen Hannibal hated, grumbling that I was treating him as if he was no more than a dog. That earned him another slap. I went away from a minute, and when I returned his glower was hot enough to burn holes through my clothes.

I’d gone away to fetch my cowboy boots, of course.

I’m not a man who owns nice shoes. The nicest pair I have are some hiking boots that I spent over one hundred dollars on, thank you very much. The fact Hannibal will spend more than that on his “casual” shoes made me want to choke sometimes.

To say my cowboy boots are “nice” would cheapen them, though. They would cost me at least five pairs of my nicest hiking boots. They are only in my possession because I briefly dated (well, slept with, repeatedly) a man who made cowboy boots, and though our relationship didn’t last very long, he still made me a pair as a gift. They still fit like a glove, and they do make my calves and ass look good.

So when I came back to bristly teen Hannibal, I pulled kitchen chairs up in front of him and sat, before tossing him my boot cleaning kit.

"You’re gonna polish Daddy’s boots," I said, grabbing a fistful of his hair. I put one of my booted feet on his chest, pushing, enjoying how he barred his teeth and pressed back. But I still had control here. And I could feel the way his body was already bending to me, his attention directed to my boots.  

"You’re gonna polish them until Daddy is happy with them, understand?" I pulled his hair.

"Yes," he said.

"I can’t hear you."

"Yes,  _Daddy_ ,” he managed. “Can I wash my hands first?”

"You may," I said, and as he did so I told him this was an act of penitence and obedience, to me, for his behavior at the gas station.

He nodded before kneeling again. He lifted and cradled my right foot in his hands, placing it back on his chest. He began, his lips barely parted, to kiss my boot. First along the instep, then the inside of the ankle and up the calf. He cupped my leg with a firm, strong hand, fingers rubbing the back of my knees through my jeans, while his other hand splayed over the leather.

I’d never in a thousand years expected this from teen Hannibal. As he touched and kissed, he bowed to me, meek and compliant even before he took out the soapstone and began to bathe the leather.

I let myself relax into the rhythm of his touches and his breathing, as he worked. He was quick, though meticulous, warming the wax in his palms and using his fingertips and nails as best he could to press the wax into the finer crevices of the leather, stopping now and again to kiss my knee, or nuzzle between my thighs.

I thought I had finally done it. I had finally figured out how to ply the wily teen Hannibal into submission, and had finally found a way to calm him.

It was in this moment, relaxed and safe as I felt in Hannibal’s firm hands, that I decided to let the pendulum drop. I wanted to see what was inside Hannibal’s head, to understand what had, at last, made him give in.

So the pendulum dropped. In teen Hannibal’s perspective, the scent of the wax and leather was sharp and bitter. He was trying not to tremble, but failing, trying to keep his breathing controlled, but it wouldn’t work for very long. He felt like throwing up, and panic was beating on him in orange and green waves.  

Even before I heard him whimper, or felt the tremors his body, or had pulled out of his mind and memories, I knew something was very,  _very_ wrong.

So I ended our play.  

I never asked teen Hannibal to do that again, though, I also told Hannibal I no longer felt comfortable with teen Hannibal and needed more experience before I played with him again.

* * *

When I’d let the pendulum drop, when I’d walked into his mind and memory, I heard her voice, and felt her presence in him, even after all those years.

She’d told him what a good boy he’d been, polishing her boots again without being asked. What a fine boy. So thoughtful, so kind. Her hands had reached for him, running across his ribs, between his thighs. She’d been older, I could tell that much, though the details of her had become hazy with time. Because she’d been older, and someone he thought he could trust, he’d felt he couldn’t say  _no_ to her. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to say no to her, or not though; her touch and affection bewildered him. She winded him and wounded him. She made him feel wretched. With her he was alone, and not alone at the same time. And he ached to be understood.

He told himself she did these things because she loved him.

I left his mind because I could not bear it more than a few minutes, and he was already crying, silently, tears in the corners of his eyes. His hands trembled as he pressed more wax into the leather.

"Stop," I told him. "Hannibal, we have to stop."

"It’s okay Daddy —"

"No, Hannibal, no —" I said, using my safeword and the scene ended.

I kicked my boots off, and knocked the wax out of his hands, and gathered him in my arms. I pulled him to his feet and then into my bed. I lay with him, holding him until his trembling subsided and his breathing evened out again.

"Are you okay?" I whispered, stroking his hair. "Can I leave you —"

"Don’t leave me," he said, hoarse, and so desperate I felt numb with fear. He’d never clung to me before, not like this.

"It’s okay, I won’t leave you," I said.

So I held him for awhile longer, while the sun dropped below the horizon, and outside, the dogs whined to be let in as the night deepened and the air grew cold.

I told him I would only be gone a few minutes, to fetch his pajamas — the warm ones he liked — and to let the dogs in while I made hot chocolate. I would keep talking to him so he could hear my voice and know I was there, and that I was coming back for him. He nodded and remained curled on the bed.

When I returned to him, with a mug of warm hot chocolate and his pajamas, l[ittle Zoe was buried against his stomach](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/102364422078/have-you-ever-had-problems-with-your-dogs-while), and growled at me.

"She’s protecting you," I laughed, passing him the hot chocolate.

As he drank he seemed to come back to himself. The lines of tension his face eased, and he cradled Zoe to him. He looked out of place though, the adult Hannibal still wearing his teen play-clothes. They were plainer than his usual clothes, and didn’t seem to sit well on his adult self.  

"Do you want to talk about it?" I asked.

He pressed his lips together, which, for Hannibal, was neither a yes or a no.

"I … I was in your mind a little. I …"

His nostrils flared.

"You shouldn’t have done that, Will."

"I know, but —"

"I would ask you not do that in the future."

"I’m sorry."

Silence.

"I love you," I said, and I hoped the words would cross the space between us. "I am sorry that … she hurt you. Whoever she was."

The muscles in his throat clenched but he said nothing for a moment.

"She never hurt me," he said. "She was my aunt by marriage. Both my parents died when I was very young. So did my younger sister. By the time I met my aunt, my uncle had died also. So we were all the family we had left. She took care of me, the best way she knew how."

I thought about that for long, long minutes. About the profound — desolation — of his childhood and all that loss, and how it had wrought the man I knew and loved. And how children like him are perfect targets for abuse, and that the pathology of abuse victims is to defend their abusers. But I didn’t say any of that, of course.

I found myself crying, stupidly, when I should have been comforting him. Crying  _for_ him.

"Your sister?" I asked. "You had a sister?"

"Mischa," he said softly, reverently.

"Mischa," I said.

I took his empty mug and wrapped my arms and legs around him. Zoe wriggled her way out while I kissed him. I kissed him softly, letting him feel my breath, the warmth and solidness of my body supporting him.

"I won’t leave you," I said into his lips.

And: “I love you.”

"I love you too," he said at length, and it was the first and only time he ever said those words to me.


	138. Overstimulation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I was wondering, are you were ever into overstimulation? Like you come but he keeps going?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Originally posted here.](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/112141886248/sup-will-your-blog-does-things-to-me-than-can-not)

> **Sup Will. Your blog does things to me than can not be undid. Anyways, I was wondering, are you were ever into overstimulation? Like you come but he keeps going?**

 

'Sup, anon. Though I am gladdened that this blog "does things to you", I am a tiny bitworried about things not being "undid". I am now concerned that you are sitting at your computer, in a state of perpetual "undidedness". I'm not a doctor, but would say that if this state of "undidedness" has persisted longer than four hours that you should seek proper medical attention.   
  
As to your query:

Did I not, more than once,  _beg_  like a good little boy, naked, on my knees, hands bound behind my back? Whimpering for Hannibal to  _touch me, please, sir_ and  _please sir, will you let me come, please_  so demurely and with such profound submission, the good Doctor just  _had_ to give in to my request?

Yes.  _But of course._  

Hannibal knew me to be a rather -- sensitive -- person, even early in our relationship. He noticed how even the lightest touch could make me shiver. There were times he could spend a whole hour teasing me with one of his deerskin floggers, gently raising the color in my skin, and occasionally snapping the diamond tipped ends across my flanks, sending little stings of pleasure and pain through me. Other times he would tease me with a knife, dragging the blade over my body, the pressure just enough to make me shudder, but not enough to cut the skin. Still other times, he would spend hours simply touching me, exploring me with his hands and mouth, until I was a quivering, sweating, cum sticky mess. 

One particular instance it happened quite by happy accident. I found myself snowed in at his house, and, after calling my nearest neighbor to check on my dogs, settled in for a whole unexpected evening alone with Hannibal. 

It began with him slowly, pleasantly, grazing his fingers along the back of my neck as he passed me during dinner. Then his hand on my thigh from beneath the table, running his fingers along the inseam of my jeans. When the dessert came out, he hovered nearby as I tasted the port, and then, leaned in and kissed me while the wine was yet fresh on my lips and tongue. When I tried press back into the kiss, and wind my arms around him, he gently pushed me away.

"I want to lavish attention on you, dear Will," he said, breath warm against my lips.

"Then _do_ ," I said, trying to kiss him again.

"When you've finished your wine," he said. "Go upstairs and lie on the bed. Only take your shoes off. I want to undress you, inch my inch."

He gave me more wine than I would choose to drink myself, given the circumstances, but it did warm the blood pleasantly and make my clothes -- coarse cotton and denim -- feel absolutely luxurious as I went up stairs and spread myself over the bed. I was rubbing myself impatiently against the mattress when Hannibal came in.

"You imp," he huffed.

"You didn't say I _couldn't_ , you just said keep your clothes on," I said,

"Brat," he said fondly, grabbing my calf and dragging me to the edge of the bed.

" _Your_ brat," I said, tangling my fingers in his hair as he bent to kiss me.

"Mmm," he hummed, and then, half lifted me and flipped me onto my stomach. I laughed and wriggled my ass against his crotch, and caught my breath. I hadn't really expected him to be hard so soon. It's not that Hannibal necessarily struggled to "perform", it's more that his erections were a little more leisurely than mine. But he was _hard,_ and I could feel him through my jeans and his fine trousers.

"Fuck," I whispered.

"Quite," he said.

Despite his erection, and mine, he took an obscene amount of time to undress me. He spent too long just running his hands over my body, both over and under my clothes, before even so much as popping the top button of my shirt open. And instead of going on to the next button, he spent some grazing his teeth over my throat and collarbone.

"Goddammit, Hannibal," I writhed, now on my back with him on top. I bucked into him, trying to grind our cocks together. He only arched away before taking my wrists and pinning them over my head.

"Patience," he growled, and went back to neck. He raised a bruise there so expertly with his lips and teeth that I nearly came right there, still dressed.

Finally he did get all my clothes off. I was achingly hard, and I trembled with even the smallest touch. He ran his lips along my spine, and then, turning me on my side, kissed a trail up my thigh and hip and ribs. He sucked my nipples while pressing his thigh against my cock. He still clothed, mind, so the fabric of his trousers felt rough against me. He did this until begged him to _spread me and fuck me, please, please_ , my hands in his hair, and my mouth against his. I showed him, with my tongue, precisely how I wanted him to fuck me.  

He turned me on my stomach again, and, of course, continued taking his damn time. First breathing against my hole, and then slowly parting my cheeks before teasing me with the tip of his tongue.

I am not ashamed to say that I came well before his cock was even inside me. It was inevitable, really: the way my whole body was crackling with pleasure and sensations. He hadn't even spanked me, paddled me, flogged, or used candlewax on me -- all of which could have the same effect of providing overstimulation. But his tongue, ah, _well_. His tongue pushed into me, at first tentative, then with more force and pressure until I was shaking and coming.

"Mmm, beautiful," he commented, and then just . . . _continued_. He used his tongue for awhile longer -- broad, lingering strokes -- and then his fingers. He was three fingers deep before I could really feel anything outside of the burn of my own orgasm, and then, I made a small, contented noise.

He laughed.

"Did you like that?" he asked, twisting his fingers.

"Ah -- _yes,"_ my spine curled with his fingers.

He withdrew a few fingers and pressed his thumb and forefinger inside of me. The feeling of his thumb rotating, just slightly, inside of me, radiated through my whole body.

"Ah," I gasped, clutching the sheets.

He used a few toys on me, spreading me wider and wider, until my hole was stretched and dripping with lubricant. The sheets stuck to my skin as he slid out of his clothes -- so ridiculously methodical even then. When he was naked, he kissed up my spine and teased my entrance with his cock. I grunted impatiently at him, which earned me a slap across my ass, and only made things worse for me.

"Oh Will," he said, pinning my wrists again, my body spread for him. He sank into me slowly, his cock thick. He groaned when he was seated all the way inside me. 

We lay there for while, not even moving, just breathing and feeling ourselves locked together.

When he did move, it was a slow rocking of his hips. I think the sound I made could be described as "mewling". Hannibal merely panted my name, over and over, his thrusts languid and deep.

He was swearing in French when he came, his body incredibly hot and slick against mine. And the feeling of his cock throbbing, and his cum inside me, well. I might have made some very shameless sounds over it, all things considered.

We meant to lay there only for little while, catching our breaths, but we were both so overstimulated that we were exhausted. I fell asleep with him still on top of me, and inside of me: his cock yet thick and heavy, filling and stretching me, and his cum leaking out of me.

All things considered, it was a pretty fantastic way to fall asleep. When I woke up in the morning, albeit without Hannibal on top of me, or inside of me (at least yet), I could still feel the residual ache of him.


	139. Ritual Pineapples

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Can you talk to your devoted readers about teen Hannibal? Ever since I've read about him, I've wondered if he once lost it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Originally posted here.](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/112457105563/hey-will-can-you-talk-to-your-devoted-readers)

 

 

> **Hey Will. Can you talk to your devoted readers about teen Hannibal? Ever since I've read about him, I've wondered if he once lost it. I assume he is physically stronger than you and wonder if he ever lashed out when he was in an especially rebellious mood. And if that ever happened, how on Earth did you survive it?**

 

Did I once vanish for a year after being stabbed while in the line of the duty and subsequently washing out of the police force due to resulting PTSD, where I moved to commune in a remote and undisclosed location, and successfully abstained from sex and sexual activities for that entire year, while allowing monks to ritually shove pineapples up my ass?

 _No_ anon. It’s just a flat _no_ to all your questions.

  1. Hannibal in any form and guise has never presented a physical danger to myself. 
  2. Teen Hannibal is fiercely protective of me. I was more worried about  _other people’s_ safety than my own around him. 
  3. The closest teen Hannibal ever came to “losing it” with me was once back-talking and accidentally striking me across the face with a kitchen spoon. I’ve been beaten until my hide was purple and blue and yellow as a field of fresh wildflowers (and, I might add, I was fully consenting to it at the time and there was no danger of me being  _seriously_  injured). I’ve been stabbed, as noted. A kitchen spoon across the face is unpleasant but hardly the worst thing I’ve had to endure physically or mentally. Teen Hannibal was horrified and spent some time in complete contrition because he was so aghast at his own behavior. 
  4. Teen Hannibal, though feral and, well, a teen, is still meticulous and keenly intelligent. He has less control than adult Hannibal, that is true, but he rarely lost it without (in his mind) just cause, and, without first making the choice to “lose it”. Hannibal was usually incredibly deliberate, even as a teen. 



I’ve really said all I can say about myself and teen Hannibal at this point, because we stopped playing together [after the bootblacking incident](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/112140392693/for-will-in-what-other-ways-have-you-punished-a). 

* * *

[Hey folks, mresundance here.

**Please no more questions about teen Hannibal right now. I am thoroughly sick of writing him.**

**[Please see this post for some pointers on asks](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/94444552938/ooc-anatomy-of-a-good-ask-friendly-tips). **

**But in a nutshell: this ask is basically trying to script a certain response, rather than allowing either Will or the writer the ability to respond in their own way.**

**_I do not take detailed prompts here._ **

This ask ought to have been deleted, and next time I get something like this, I will delete it. I’ve been way too lenient with these kind of asks, and I have answered them despite the fact they are pretty much trying to map out a scenario.

While I am grateful for and appreciate readers and asks, I just don’t take such overly detailed prompts here, period. So please do not send them.]


	140. He Promised

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Have you ever been insurmountably possessive/jealous with regards to Hannibal, to the point of becoming insecure or paranoid?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Originally posted here.](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/112706719098/have-you-ever-been-insurmountably)

> **Have you ever been insurmountably possessive/jealous with regards to Hannibal, to the point of becoming insecure or paranoid? How did he react?**

 

Oh anon. [Jealous and possessive at times, yes](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/94376566318/and-what-about-you-are-you-jealous-of-him-he), but insurmountably,  _no._ There are always moments one can, more or less, behave poorly and forgo proper impulse control. I’m certainly guilty of that,[ most notably when Hannibal told me he’d found a new play partner, Randall Tier](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/98810629383/has-hannibal-ever-been-nervous-about-anything-in). 

But if I were insurmountably jealous, to the point of being more insecure or paranoid than I already am? I am sure Hannibal would have found that appealing for about … a day. And then he would have found it  _unappealing._ Boring. Pedestrian, even.Which is perhaps, ironic, given that he himself is a rabidly jealous and possessive person. 

There are few things more debasing and nauseating than paranoid and insecure jealousy. We all suffer from jealousy and possessiveness, some more than others, of course. But the relationships I’ve left most rapidly were not necessarily because of incapability on some level. I’ve left relationships most rapidly when I saw my partners were insanely, maddeningly jealous. It spoke more to their insecurities than any affection they said they had for me. It was not a sign of “love”, but immaturity, if I may be blunt. 

For an example of the opposite in some regards: Hannibal. 

Yes, you may be thinking:  _what the flying fuck Will?_ You might also be thinking:  _you_   _were the one who did the breaking up, you asshole, so why are you even talking about him?_ Or, you might be thinking, based on what you do know of Hannibal, that he is  _not_  a good example of a lack of jealousy and possessiveness. 

You would be right if you are dwelling on the latter. If I didn’t know Hannibal so well, I would say he is the kind of man I ought to have fled from long, long ago, that his jealousy and possessiveness would be my utter undoing and lead me to ruin, etc. 

And he was jealousy possessive, terribly so. You can see that in his poorly chosen and, frankly, uncalled for “punishment” of me [with an enema](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/106420514293/asking-you-to-follow-up-on-a-very-long-ago-post) when we began dating. 

At the time I wrote that post, we were still together, and I wouldn’t have said this, but: when he did that I spent a few days seriously thinking about leaving him. I was not at all assured by what he said about us “figuring things out”. We had had a miscommunication — and those things happen — but there is a difference between a miscommunication and forcing an enema on someone.

What made me stay was that Hannibal apologized, in his own way, and, he even changed. 

The apology was very Hannibal: an intimate and lavish dinner at my house, just the two of us, with no expectations of sex or even touching. We spent most of that night talking about literature, and, at one point, I asked him to sit on the couch with me and we — well — cuddled. He kissed me, very tenderly, and said he regretted his rash actions with the “punishment” and he wanted to try again. This time, he promised. 

He promised. 

He promised as he kissed me again. He promised, and he asked if he could take my clothes off — not to have sex, but just to kiss me and touch me and see me. I said yes, and he took my clothes off, one item at a time, and kissed me all over. I lay naked below him and just let him touch and kiss me. 

And he kept his promise in the months that followed. I know that he wasn’t exactly keen on sharing me, sexually speaking. But I had told him up front: this is who I am, take it or leave it. 

I also told him I would be loyal to him, emotionally. I told him I would be loyal to him unreservedly and without question, which is  _not_  nothing. (I liked him a lot even then.  _Hell_ , I was in love with him. I think a part of me always will be.)

But he promised. He curbed his jealousy and his possessiveness, because neither of those things would ever keep me. I marveled at his self control. That was a true sign to me, of his affection, and later, his love. He didn’t usually succumb to his jealousy and possessiveness — at least — outside of role play scenarios.

I hope I praised his self control enough, but I fear I didn’t. I hope I appreciated enough what he sacrificed for me, but again, I fear I didn’t. 

He promised, and held himself to that even when I knew it must have been hard for him. He didn’t always get it right, but he tried. When he didn’t get it right, he did try, in his way, to own that.

And that, anon, was ten thousand times more attractive and arousing than any amount of jealousy or possessiveness ever could be.


	141. Self Loathing, Whiskey, and Soul Searching

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Have your ever lashed out at Abigail, blaming her for your breakup with Hannibal?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Originally posted here.](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/112999933793/have-your-ever-lashed-out-at-abigail-blaming-her)

 

> **Have your ever lashed out at Abigail, blaming her for your breakup with Hannibal?**

 

[Image of Will with his mouth open, looking completely dumbfounded.]

 

But  _why_  would I even do that?

I mean, I am far from perfect and I made a whopping number of mistakes in my relationship with Hannibal, but  _why would I even do that_?

I am really trying to answer this adequately, but I don’t even know why I would do something like blame Abigail for mistakes Hannibal and I made?

And even if I did I think Abigail would have exactly  _none_ of it. I imagine the conversation would go down thusly:

Me: Abigail, you harpy, this is all your fault.

Abigail: Whatever. I’m not the one who sticks my dick into anything even slightly good looking.*

Me: …  _touché._

So, my apologies if this is not the answer you were looking for, and you were maybe hoping I’d started making a habit of tying her up and whipping her (definite no) or even once threw her over my lap and spanked her (also no), or even just humiliated or nagged her (not really), for no discernible reason except that maybe I felt like taking out my mistakes on her … ?

????????????????????

But that is what  _self loathing_ and  _whiskey_ and  _long soul searching evenings alone_ are for. Since I am adept at those three things, lately in conjunction, there is no possible reason for me to take out my frustrations or mistakes on anyone else, much less Abigail. 

 

* Actual words she has said to me, more or less, and more than once. 

~~She only says those kinds of things to people she loves.~~


	142. Not I, Dear Readers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Have you (Will) ever done ageplay? If so, did you enjoy it?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Originally posted here.](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/113007299873/have-you-will-ever-done-ageplay-if-so-did-you)

 

> **Have you (Will) ever done ageplay? If so, did you enjoy it?**

 

This will come as a great shock to many readers, but: I have been lying to you all. 

I am not an overly forthright cock-hungry twink. I am, in fact a miserable man, vaguely alcoholic and clinging to the last vestiges of my equally vague heterosexuality. I’ve deeply repressed my homosexual urges and this makes me all the more miserable and alcoholic, and it means that I spend too much time at work, looking at grisly crime scenes, in an attempt to avoid my deeply repressed homosexual longings. 

I have not slept with countless men (so many that I hesitate to ever reveal the real number) or women or non-binary folk. Nope. I have slept with exactly two women in my entire life, and only one man, Hannibal Lecter.

I was a sweet, virginal man, with luscious red lips and flushed cheeks and porcelain skin worthy of a Botticelli painting, before Hannibal Lecter plucked me and initiated me into the joys of gay sex (tm). He spent a great deal of time coaxing and courting me, assuring me that my urges and longings were perfectly natural. I finally succumbed to my desires and he took my gay virginity, penetrating my tight, virgin asshole with his enormous, pulsating, horse-sized member. 

I wept that day, dear readers. I had never known the glory of true love and sex and intimacy until Hannibal  _thrust_  into me to the very hilt, over and over again, thereby claiming my virginity and rendering me  _his_ forevermore. 

The long and short of it is: being such an inexperienced man, with all my repressed urges and longings, I could never have been into anything slightly “weird”, much less, into any kind of  _kinky_  fuckery. I still  _blush_  [at mentions of oral sex](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/tagged/oral-sex), much less, ahem, [fisting](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/tagged/fisting). I’ve never even [put my mouth on another man’s ahem, _bottom_](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/tagged/rimming), much less [given Hannibal erotic enemas](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/96901765758/have-you-ever-done-anything-or-thought-about-doing). The mere thought of [breathplay](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/tagged/breathplay) makes me a little breathless and not in a good way. And I most certainly have never ever done something like been in [an orgy or a gangbang](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/94357774933/homoette-submitted-ever-been-to-an-orgy-will), or [had two dicks in my tight inexperienced hole at once](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/tagged/double-penetration). 

So I most definitely [have never done any ageplay](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/tagged/ageplay) or indulged in any “[daddy kink](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/tagged/daddy-kink)”, either as a brat to Hannibal’s Daddy, nor as a Daddy to Hannibal’s little. 

Nope, not I. 

[OOC: The [Tags page](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/tags) is awesome, especially if you are new to the blog. ;) ]


	143. Luring Hannibal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A reader replied to an earlier post and this sort of just happened.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Originally posted here.](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/113640689593/luring-hannibal)

> **Waa, lure him back. LURE HIM!**

 

_Lure him?_

Lure Hannibal Lecter?  _Moi?_  

I suppose there once was a time that I would have, and did, in my own way, though, [throwing him on his kitchen floor and fucking him was not really  _luring_](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/94364846593/how-did-hannibal-first-seduce-you-or-perhaps-you) _._

But I had my  … ways, so to speak, when we were together. 

The most effective ways to lure him were to feed his ego (a lot) and to sit down and talk to him (a lot).

Fortunately it was easy to do both at once, usually. 

Though this blog is replete with our sexual exploits, and though all of our sexual exploits are certainly not chronicled here, probably the most enduring erotic activity we indulged in, more than anything else, was basically just the two of us sitting across from each other having conversations. 

Conversation was really the foundation of our relationship, since he was my psychiatrist when we first met. Conversation was what kept us bound together before and after and during sex. Conversation was what kept us close and renewed us when things were difficult. Conversation — undressing word by word by word — until we could both experience each other, stripped of assumptions and preconceived notions, utterly naked and utterly flawed and human and vulnerable. Conversation let us come together as  _ourselves._ Which is no mean feat. 

My lips and tongue — they are talented. My body is, as Hannibal would have said “quite becoming”. But it’s my mind that lured him, at the end of the day. 

A good lover without a sharp mind would not have held Hannibal’s interest for longer than a split second. He’s a bit demanding in that way, but I enjoyed that about him. He would not take “second best”. The fact he chose me made me feel very — well — special I suppose. Like I was something wholly unique. Like I was worth adoring. Like I was cherished. 

It was a good feeling. 


	144. Get It

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ever cry after getting yours? or witness someone doing so?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Originally posted here.](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/113644074513/ever-cry-after-getting-yours-or-witness-someone)

> **ever cry after getting yours? or witness someone doing so?**

 

This makes me think of mac and cheese, anon. 

Specifically, my Dad’s mac and cheese. He l[earned how to cook from the same person who taught me](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/104680181928/whats-your-favorite-non-sexual-kink), my Grandmother (Mawmaw), his mother. Because she was very much about Cajun food, my Dad naturally made a mean macaroni and cheese which included (but was not limited to): wagon wheel pasta, andouille sausage, cheddar cheese sharp enough to curl the hair on the back of my neck, and enough cayenne pepper to make Mawmaw’s eyes water (she insisted no recipe was done  _right_ unless it made her eyes water).

My Dad only made this mac and cheese for me, and when I’d had a really really shitty day. My Dad wasn’t always around a lot when I was a kid (he had to work), but if I had a bad day he always would come home early the next day, so he’d have time to make me his glorious mac and cheese.

One time I was bullied at school for my shoes -- secondhand from the Salvation Army, and falling apart despite the fact that I’d glued and duct-taped them to make them last a little longer -- and I might have hit the bully in the face with said shoe, thereby blooding his nose and breaking the shoe for good. I was naturally suspended for a week, and my Grandmother upbraided me until my eardrums nearly split open. I had a lot of new chores to do in that week (of course) and wasn’t allowed out to play with any of my (very few) friends. 

But my Dad still made me mac and cheese. He told me he wasn’t proud of my choices -- it was wrong of me to hit that other boy -- but he made me mac and cheese because he loved me even when I made bad choices, and he understood why I had hit the other boy. Even if it was the wrong thing to do. 

I still think about that some times. 

And some times, I still make his recipe, mostly for myself, and especially when I am feeling a little laid low by life. 

The reason your ask makes me think of that, oddly enough, is the phrasing “getting yours”. When my Dad or my Grandmother called me down to supper, they would bellow:

_“GEEEEHT IT!”_

If my cousins happened to be over, there would be a stampede, with lots of elbowing, to the dinner table. 

Of course, when it was just my special mac and cheese, my Dad would yell, “GEEEHT IT” and I would come down to dinner, and it would be just me and him, sometimes for  _hours._ Sometimes it was like we were the only two people in the entire universe. 

I loved those meals more than words can express, and I love them all the more even since my Grandmother and Dad passed away. 

All and all though, that is probably not what you meant at all with your query. So to answer that: [I most definitely have cried when I “got mine”](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/102962204823/dear-will-you-look-so-pretty-when-you-cry-have) (???? though, I have to say, sex is not about  _getting, taking_ , or otherwise . . . like cooking a good meal, it’s really about the  _giving_  and the  _receiving_ )  and probably when I saw someone else “get” theirs as well.


	145. Two Roads

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Talk to him, he still cherishes you. Your readers (or just me) are dying for some sort of reunion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Originally posted here.](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/113645619978/two-roads)

> **[kinneykid](http://kinneykid.tumblr.com/) replied to your post [“Luring Hannibal”](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/113640689593/luring-hannibal): ** **While my comment was intended for chapter 135 (oopsy) I enjoyed this insight. Talk to him, he still cherishes you. Your readers (or just me) are dying for some sort of reunion. A conversation with him can’t hurt, right? RIGHT! PLEASE, I’M DESPERATE!**

Ah, but that road diverged in a yellow wood, as they say, and I took … the not Hannibal road. 

Besides, I am pleased in my new relationship with Frank. I guess we can call it official now. We have been, ahem, quite  _intimate_ over the past few weeks.

And by “intimate” I mean he has a tendency to pin me down and fuck me in crude, rough, and entirely arousing ways. It’s probably a good thing I am on sabbatical this semester, because the suck marks he leaves on my neck would be terribly hard to cover without a scarf.

Abigail says we spend all our time fucking like horny teenagers, and … that is probably fairly accurate. 

 


	146. The First Stone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Leaving Hannibal and the monster he is and then finding Francis Dolarhyde. It is that? The kind of guy you love?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Originally posted here.](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/113702297518/the-first-stone)

> **[nekorse](http://nekorse.tumblr.com/) replied to your post [“Two Roads”](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/113645619978/two-roads): That’s actually weirdly sweet. Leaving Hannibal and the monster he is and then finding Francis Dolarhyde. It is that? The kind of guy you love?**

 

“Monster”????

Wow, [let he who is blameless cast the first stone and all](http://biblehub.com/john/8-7.htm). Hannibal’s a flawed human being, but he’s not a  _monster._ I might have broken up with him but I’d prefer not to indulge in personal attacks on him. 

And as for Dolarhyde: the kind of guy who is a children’s librarian and reads to crowds of giggling, fidgeting, nose-pickers in the afternoons? The kind of guy that knows kids love it when you use different voices for different characters and makes all the sound effects?

Yes, that is exactly the kind of horrible, horrible man to which I am currently drawn. Wow, such a bad dude. 

(Also, it’s really terrible that his refractory period right now is about twenty minutes. My ass is getting no rest, and neither is the rest of me.  _Awful_.)


	147. Self Evident

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dear Will, has there ever been anything Hannibal wanted to try out but you didn't? And vice versa?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Originally posted here.](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/114506877783/dear-will-has-there-ever-been-anything-hannibal)

> **Dear Will, has there ever been anything Hannibal wanted to try out but you didn't? And vice versa?**

 

But of course.

Certain things are self evident: the sky is blue. Water is wet. Dogs are the most magnificent animals to grace this earth. I’ve slept with an untoward number of people. Etc.

In every relationship there are always compromises and limits, and there is always something you want to try, or your partner wants to try.

The list of things one of us wanted to try and the other didn’t is much longer than these few examples, and includes things like the fact that Hannibal was far more into kink than I when we met. He persuaded me to try more than I discuss here. 

Also, the list of things I wanted and that he did not include the fact that Hannibal never really liked sharing me, sexually, with others, and we never came to a good compromise which suited both of us.

But I’ve discussed that a lot, and, since I’m feeling positive, I’m not going to dwell on the negative. So, onwards.

Exhibit A: Once we started incorporating more kink into our relationship, Hannibal wanted to put me in a dog collar, give me a tail, and have me lumber around his house on all fours, and occasionally fetch things.

He broached the topic of [pet play](http://www.submissiveguide.com/2009/04/pet-play-human-pets-primer/) over dinner one evening. I wasn’t …  _overly familiar_ with the practice, but I tried to be understanding. I tried to be compassionate and not a total asshole.

Probably I failed because I started laughing so hard I began to cry and Hannibal looked like a cat whose tail has just been sucked up by the vacuum cleaner.

When I had calmed down enough to stop laughing and start making sense, I explained to Hannibal, no, his desires to have a pet were not funny to me. It was the idea of  _me_ being  _his_ pet which was funny, because — had he seen my entire  _pack_ of dogs? Had he not  _seen_ my house and all the cleaning I had to do because of said dogs? Had he not borne witness to Buster’s penchant for rummaging through the garbage for things he would eat and then throw up? Or how Zoe still became so frightened by odd noises she would hide in the closet and piss all over the floor?

Dealing with real dogs, however much I loved them, really made pet play seem very unappealing to me.

Hannibal didn’t really like it at first, but I think he understood. He later found a pet in [a guy named Randall Tier](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/98810629383/has-hannibal-ever-been-nervous-about-anything-in) who, according to Hannibal, could variously be a bear, a panther, and occasionally a wolf. At first this surprised me, but then — this was Hannibal. A mere  _dog_ as a pet hardly seemed challenging enough for him. Feral and wild creatures would suit him better.

In retrospect, that does make me a  _bit_  more curious about the whole thing, but I never watched him or Randall play. I knew it would make me too jealous. I would’ve been too tempted to disrupt their relationship, so I tended not to ask about it. I also tried not to dwell on it. Sometimes I’d ask Hannibal “how’s the bear?”, but that was it.

Exhibit B: This is non-sexual, but still.

Whenever we went to [our Colorado hideaway in the mountains](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/94173946258/what-is-you-favorite-dirty-fantasy-hannibal-had), Hannibal always wanted to go skiing. Of course he did. This is a man who can speak half a dozen languages and read in a few more, who was an excellent surgeon and an amazing therapist, who dresses like he’s going to the opera every day, cooks like a Michelin star chef, can play several different musical instruments, and could make me climax by talking dirty. Of course he not only wants to ski,but looks like he stepped out of some goddamn higher class L. L. Bean catalog when he does, and probably could give some Olympians a run for their money on the actual slopes.

 _Of course he wants to ski._  Water is wet, the sky is blue, and Hannibal has to show off his fancy gear and capabilities  _somehow_.

While I do cross-country ski, I do not downhill ski. I will catch serial killers all the live long day, but there are  _limits._ There are things that are, in my mind,  _clearly insane._ Strapping two narrow boards of waxed wood to my feet and proceeding to plunge down a 12,000 foot mountain is one of them.

(Plus, the last time I tried skiing down a mountain I was seven. I broke my arm.)

So Hannibal would often end up skiing when we were at Crested Butte, and I would end up on the back porch, in our condo’s hot tub, enjoying the view of snow-capped mountains and achingly blue skies, reading until both my skin and the pages of my book had turned wrinkly.

One time, we had one of those really stupid arguments you have in a relationship when you’ve gotten comfortable with each other. Hannibal said he wanted to enjoy the pleasure of my company or something like that, and I told him he could enjoy it, whole and hale without any broken bones, when he was done plunging down the mountain. I said he was a big boy, he could do it on his own. Hannibal gave me a glare that was frostier than the icicles dangling off the eves outside, and left in a huff.

Maybe, because I was a little bored, and frustrated by our argument, I might have started doing inappropriate things in the hot tub, like positioning my cock over one of the water jets and finding, to my delight, that I could get rock hard from the sensation of the warm water pouring over me.

So when Hannibal returned from the slopes, still a bit indignant, he walked in on me in the hot tub while I was  _thrusting_ into the current. He stood there in the patio doorway, staring at me as if I was the most fascinating and curious thing in all of human existence.

"Is this what you get up to when I am not around?" he asked, almost wry.

"Uhm," I said.

Folding his arms, he said I should “proceed”.

"Don’t let me get stop you. You are a big boy, after all."

I could have lunged for him, and we probably would have wrestled it out. Instead I decided to call his bluff. I spread myself on the top ledge of the hot tub, which was only a few inches below the water, and stroked myself.

Though there were no neighbors in view — the condo was three stories up — the sound had a tendency to carry. So I tried to be quiet. My breathes came out in soft, white plumes in the cold, clear afternoon, and my skin turned pink from the mixture of hot water and icy air. Hannibal stood, his cheeks scoured red from sun and wind, watching. To anyone else he might have appeared impassive, even indifferent, but his lips curved at the corners, and his dark eyes flickered. He always liked watching, as much as I liked being watched.

I reached behind myself, enjoying the burn and stretch as I pushed a dry finger into my entrance. When I came, I was rocking against two fingers and squeezing my cock, moaning Hannibal’s name as quietly as I could, all things considered.

"Hm," he said as I relaxed down into the hot tub. I did feel rather pleased with myself. 

He joined me not long after, his own cock hard from watching me. Let’s just say I soon felt considerably more stretched, and achingly full. He had to put a hand over my mouth to keep me quiet, and I left bite marks in his palm.


	148. Love is like a brick

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some chatter between Abigail and Will. It's apropos of nothing except to give you a brief window into their lives right now, before things start going pear-shaped again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Originally posted and reblogged here.](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/114471041178/love-is-like-a-brick)

**Abigail:**

I had a mixed CD of Lady Gaga music that went missing last month. (Yeah, I still burn mixed CD’s. It was something of a family tradition, once.) 

Anyways. I thought I’d lost the CD [when I moved in with Molly](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/109810503728/will-you-have-been-breaking-my-heart-but-i-need), but then, I visited Will other day. I took the dogs for a walk and when I came back, Will and his new boyfriend, Frank, Mr. Tall and Uptight and Somehow also Weirdly Endearing, had gone to Will’s bedroom.

They were making  _a lot_ of noise. It was approaching a level of grossness that made me want to go out for another walk. Then I realized  I knew what some of that  _noise_ was. 

They were going to pound-town to the tune of Lady Gaga’s “Judas” on repeat.

Will stole my Lady Gaga CD for sex music.

I wonder how much I can torture him with this.

 

**Will:**

Is  _that_ what that song is?

I… haven’t really paid all that much attention to be honest. It’s mostly just for … background noise.

I didn’t steal it either, you left it in my car.


	149. Sharing Nightmares

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So Will, what's it like dating Frank?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Originally posted here.](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/114703804693/so-will-whats-it-like-dating-frank-we-have)

 [OOC: You guys know the drill! The top portion, before the break, is Will’s “official” answer, the bottom is the stuff he is withholding.

Warnings for brief mentions of child abuse and abandonment. It’s nothing new to people familiar with Dolarhyde’s character, but just so you know.

There is a follow-up post to this as well. It is the next chapter.]

 

* * *

 

 

> **So Will, what's it like dating Frank? We have heard drubs and drabs but you haven't gone into a lot of detail about him.**

 

It’s pretty good right now.

It’s a new relationship so we are still learning each other.There were some, uhm,  _issues,_ I guess you could say, when we were first seeing each other and exploring being intimate, but those issues have faded in the past few weeks.

I haven’t really said much about him because I haven’t told him about this blog and it’s probably not kosher to reveal too much without asking first. Hell, I probably shouldn’t be discussing Hannibal. I haven’t spoken to him since we broke up, though, so I haven’t asked him if it was okay to keep talking about us here.

But Frank is nice, and, despite seeming like a total hard-ass, is actually quite tender in his way. It’s really fascinating to me that a guy who was a sniper, as he was, decided to become a children’s librarian when he came back to the States. He says he was tired of the “military bullshit” and he wanted something that felt kinder and more optimistic, all and all. Besides that, he read a lot while he was on tour, and the thing he most remembers reading during that time was Harry Potter. Frank says he likes Harry Potter because  he himself was bounced between his birth family and foster care as a kid, so he always fantasized that someone would come and take him away, that he wouldn’t be alone, that his asshole family would turn out to be impostors and people who really cared about him would finally claim him.

"Instead the Army got me when I turned 18," he quips.

But you wouldn’t know any of this just looking him. He’s very intimidating. Muscular, tall, with tattoos all over the place. I’m tempted to say his permanent expression is “don’t fuck with me”, though, the more I know him, the more I’d say it’s more of a “ _please_ don’t fuck with me” expression. He’s strong — very strong. Probably stronger than Hannibal. He looks as if he could snap your neck like a wishbone without a second thought.

Now, imagine this guy, if you will, this towering, ripped ex-sniper, reading to a pack of small, wriggling, static-haired, nose-picking, sticky-fingered school children. His long, muscular body folded up awkwardly and endearingly on the stool as he reads. When he smiles, you forget instantly how malevolent he can appear. He is so, so careful as he turns the pages; his touches are a caress. He takes his time reading and pronouncing the words clearly and loudly so even the children in the back can hear. He loves taking his time to hold the book up, spreading the pages so the kids can see the pictures. Best of all, he  _always_ does all the voices.

You know what I mean. I came to pick him up for a lunch date one day (and actual date, with actual conversation) and he was reading  _James and the Giant Peach._ And he did different voices for each of the characters: Old-Green-Grasshopper, Miss Spider, Ladybug, Centipede, and James, etc. The kids loved it, of course, and one even had a bit of a fit when Frank closed the book. He had to comfort the boy by telling him they would be reading the next chapter tomorrow, and he could come back then.

Anyways. This is probably more than I should share. But I really like him. When I see him with the kids like that, or, petting my dogs and trying to give each and every one of them a fair share of attention; or when he leans in, brushing my hair aside so he can kiss the back of my neck — well.

My heart turns over on itself, just a little.

He’s the kind of man I could fall in love with. I might just allow it, too.

* * *

****March 1** **

**Will**

We sleep together, though we haven’t had sex yet. We’ve talked about it, of course, and it’s only a matter of days, really, maybe not even that. A matter of hours. The right number of kisses. A requisite number of suck marks left on my collarbone first, like red and purple flowers. The right words growled into my ear as he grinds his hardness, through our jeans, into my ass.

An uneasy courtship though. I say “no” and “not yet” a lot. I can relax into his kisses until I feel his scar press against my lips. Until I taste his cigarettes, coarse and smoky, on his tongue, instead of wine or even — blood. Until I open my eyes and see his hands are finer and fairer than Hannibal’s. Until I hear him say he wants me and the voice is all wrong — sloppy American vowels and rough consonants — instead of a vague, hazy smear of language, like a thick fog which blots out everything except the things closest to you.

Our naked bodies meet sometimes, in the dark, between the sheets of my bed, or his. His hands are too warm as they skim over my skin, his breath hot and almost sulfuric. Our bodies meet almost hesitantly: exploring, touching, kissing , but nothing more.

"Not yet," I say, as he hardens against my thigh.

"Not yet," I say, my own cock limp, though my body echoes with desires. For him, to feel him sink inside me, split me open.

Frank and I — our bodies meet and it’s right they should be so distant to one another right now. But I still yearn for our bodies to meet and  _twine_ together, like the sycamore and the Virginia creeper in my back yard, enmeshed and twisted in one another, until separating them would mean killing them both.

We sleep together, but we don’t have sex, and we don’t really sleep either.

But we do share nightmares together.

When he sleeps he doesn’t dream of bullets and burning sands, of blood and skulls shattered by his sniper rifle. No; he dreams of his grandmother. He dreams of urine down his leg, and crying helplessly while his grandmother threatens to cut his dick off for pissing himself. He dreams of crying and though someone hears him — his grandmother, who would tell him to stop acting like a little baby, his mother and stepfather, who ignored him, never wanted him — no one comes for him. No one comes and holds him and tells him it will be alright. No one tells him he is not alone.

He dreams he is a little boy and he is always alone in the dark.

When he whimpers at night, I try to hold him and tell him he’s not alone, but I don’t think he will ever be convinced.

I dream too, but my dreams are drenched in blood and possibilities. The sound of hoof-beats on dead leaves in the night. Being wrapped warm in the belly of some beast, tangled up in intestines and breathing in his blood. Of waking up and forcing the rib cage of the beast apart, open, and gasping into night air so cold that burns my face and throat.  

Frank found me one night, sleepwalking down the road, my heels scraped raw, my limbs half blue from the winter temperatures.  

While Hannibal would have wrapped me in his coat or a blanket, and chaffed my limbs until the feeling came back, and fed me impossibly ornate soup, and told me it would be all right, Frank just looked at me as if I were absolutely crazy.

"What the hell, Will?" he’d said with a hitch in his voice. As if he understood exactly what it was like to wake up from nightmares and not know where, or who, you were.

He did hold me close, and helped me into a warm shower, and brewed some thin coffee, but the understanding we shared — that we were the same, really — left me cold and aching for hours.

[OOC: The post which follows this one is in the next chapter.]


	150. Blood Brimmed the Curse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will and Frank have sex for the first time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Originally posted here.](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/114704964328/blood-brimmed-the-curse)

[A slight continuation from the last chapter. Title lifted from Gerard Manley Hopkins' poem ["I Wake and Feel the Fell of Dark"](http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/173661).

There is brief mention of asexuality. Frank is not the type of person who would know the best terms, so you'll have to understand he fumbles a bit with that.

Warnings for murder boners, lol. Some brief mentions of gore and violence.]

 

**Blood Brimmed the Curse**

**March 7**

**Will**

There will never be a right time, or moment, the right number of kisses and suck marks and touches which might finally coax me into his arms and his bed. I will never feel more ready, so I might as well get it over with

I know this as I sit out on my front porch with him. We drink whiskey and watch the sun set behind blood colored clouds. I know this as I gulp down two fingers, and then two more, the whiskey tart and smoky against my tongue.

I do want him. And maybe straddling his lap while he laughs in surprise, and kissing him, sloppily, open mouthed, will make me stop comparing him to -- another. Will make me be happier to have  _this_ man here, now, his body warm and solid beneath me, shifting to press us closer together, his hands digging into my shoulder-blades.

"Fuck me?" I say, licking blood from my lower lip, where he'd nipped me.

"Hell yes," he says, wrapping his arms around me.

We might do it right here, out in the open, while the sunset colors us red, his cock throbbing and thick inside me, but instead we make it to the bedroom, after corralling the dogs away in the living room. There's an awkward, shy moment of undressing. We steal glances at once another's bodies, but there's no drinking the sight in, savoring it. We kiss, naked, half hesitant, and I push him into the edge of the bed.

There's no ceremony in this, as I kneel: just the quiet, quick intakes of his breath, the shadows darkening around us, his cock warm in my mouth.

It's good, though.

I haven't had anyone, honestly, for a few weeks now, not even Abigail. Something about her, and I, seems to have expired. Maybe it's because she's busy with school, or I'm absorbed with Frank. Maybe it's because I feel guilty about my part in the whole mess with Hannibal and Abigail. Maybe it's because she deserves better and I know it. Maybe it's because there is more comfort to being her friend than I expected, and the rest pales by contrast to that. Maybe it's just the fact my dick seems to have stopped working.

Whatever it is, I haven't fucked anyone, or really even touched myself, for a few weeks. My body frozen in some kind of winter. But my body is responding now -- with something -- need, desire, anxiousness, fear -- though my cock hasn't.  

Frank's dick however  _is_ responding, the shaft thickening and lengthening in my mouth. Frank groaning whenever I swipe my tongue along the underside of his shaft. He especially likes it when I lean in and suck his balls.

"Do you like rimming?" I ask.

Frank squirms.

"Giving or receiving?"

"Giving."

"Not particularly, but if you like it . . ." he makes a face which actually makes me laugh, though, I am a little disappointed.

"You don't have to if you don't like it," I say.

"Just get up here and get on your stomach," he says.

He does try, though, he's tentative about it, his tongue just brushing my entrance. The rim-job is more of a rim-tease than anything, and he's finally slid his tongue inside me -- briefly -- before he pulls out and asks me about my lube and condoms.

"Nightstand.”

"Sorry about the rim job," he grumbles. "I can finger you though."

"Okay."

His finger is cold as he penetrates me, brisk, and too fast, and it burns enough that my cock almost jumps. Almost. His finger and then his fingers working inside me, slick, carefully opening me. But I'm trying to hide my limpness by thrusting into the mattress.

"Yeah?" he asks, reaching around to grab my cock.

"Yeah," I manage. " _Yeah._ "

But he lays himself on top of me, kissing my temple and stroking me. Rubbing his cock between my thighs.

"Will?" he asks.

"Yeah?"

"Are you okay?"

"Yeah, it's fine. It's good, Frank."

"Do you not like this?"

"I do. I do like this Frank, I swear."

"You're just --"

I groan, and not at all happily, because Frank has rolled off me and stopped trying to make my cock harder.

"Am I not  . . . attractive to you?" he asks and I can hear the tremor in his voice. The vulnerability, the  _need._

"Oh god, Frank, you are, you are. You're stunning, I swear," I tell him. "It's okay, it's just something . . . that's been going on for a few weeks. It's not you."

He looks at me and I can tell he's not happy about this.

"Come on Frank, you can fuck me. I want you to fuck me," I say, reaching for him.

"No," he scowls. "It's too weird to do this if you're not --" he gestures.

"Okay," I say, curling on my side and sighing. "It's not that I wouldn't be -- into it, though."

"You're not -- acesexual -- or . . . ?"

"Asexual?"

"Yeah."

"No Frank. I'm just fucked up."

He makes an amused noise at that.

"We can try again later," I tell him.

"Sure," he says.

He doesn't want to drive home tonight, so we fall asleep -- fitfully, barely touching.

I wake in the night, black and starless and moonless. I hear Frank snoring, and grumbling in his sleep, while I pad through my house naked and shivering, but really too drained to pull on boxer briefs, or to go back to bed.  

Instead I sit on my couch. I half wrap myself in a blanket and turn on a lamp so I can drink and nose my way through cold case files. The pages, words, and images of the Marlowe file float in front of me, vaguely. I've been through this file so much I've nearly got it memorized, word by word, picture by picture. Something about this case seems increasingly . . . close, and more and more familiar.

I hear the floorboards squeak, and the dogs rumble in their sleep.

In the dim light, Frank is no more than a sliver, a ghost. In the daylight, his tattoos are bright -- all the scales and flames and jaws and claws and tales and wings which wind over his shoulders, back, and arms -- a dragon that looks like it’s trying to tear its way through his skin. But now there just eerie gray patches. When he reaches for me from the dark, his hands are black before the light hits them, and his eyes are the same color.

"What are you looking at?" he kisses my temple, then pauses.

"Just something from work --"

"Homework?" he grunts, and then stops, looking at the picture of Mrs. Marlowe lying in a pool of her own blood, before I can snap the folder closed.

"Gunshot wound?" he asks after a minute.

I make a noise.

"Yeah. The shooter was -- nearly surgical in his precision. He missed every major artery and she was paralyzed before the bullet even left her body."

"An expert marksman then. Or woman."

"Yeah, you can say that."

"That's quite . . . remarkable. Disturbing, though."

"Yeah. A bit."

Silence as he presses himself nearer, and I can feel the heat rising off him.

"I could have made that shot," he says.

There's something about the way he drags the words out that feels odd. So I laugh.

"What?"

"Frank, you couldn't hurt a fly."

"I did more than hurt flies when I was overseas. My number of confirmed kills . . . was pretty high."

He says it with a scowl, as if he doesn't want to talk about it.

"I know, but that was  _orders_."

"Maybe," he says, kissing my shoulder, his palm reaching down to cup my cock.

" _Will_ ," he says when feels how hard I am. He turns me over, onto my belly. 

"I need to get the lube and condom," he says.

"No -- no --" I grab his wrist. "Just use spit."

"Are you -- sure?" he says, but he seems delighted.

He had argued against condoms, saying he was clean, he preferred it without, and besides, he wasn't planning on fucking anyone else. I hadn't said much, except that I preferred sex with condoms, and that I was clean as far as I knew. I haven't told him yet about my particular -- proclivities. Not yet.

"Yeah," I say. "Just fuck me -- please."

"Okay.”

He wets his fingers just enough to make it burn pleasantly. He pushes his cock into my mouth, telling me to get it nice and slick for him. It's sinful to hear him say those words because he seems like the kind of guy who wouldn't.

I suck him, eyes heavy lidded, body finally -- finally -- humming all over with pleasure, my cock still hard has he flips me back over and pushes into me, slow at first, letting me adjust, and then harder. His thrusts cleave right through me, and feel like they're going to tear me open each time.

"Do you like that?" he asks me as he fucks me and I scrabble for purchase against the couch cushions.

"Yeah," I manage. "Oh fuck  _yeah_ ," I say, as my orgasm floods my body, wet, and hot, and filthy as pools of blood.

When Frank comes, he bites me. I feel both his cum inside me, and his mouth sucking the blood from my shoulder, his tongue on my wound, and I shudder all over again.

"God _damn_ ," Frank whispers once we've both caught our breaths.

I laugh, a shrill sound.

If Frank knew me better he might hear the note of fear beneath the excitement and the relief.

But he doesn't.

Instead he kisses me, and I can taste my own blood in his mouth.


	151. Through the Chrysalis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hannibal is called in to consult on a crime scene.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Originally posted here.](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/115144880194/through-the-chrysalis-march-21-timestamp)

[OOC: All the warnings on this one, namely mentions of some pretty graphic violence and rape. 

With thanks to [memorypalaceofwillgraham](http://tmblr.co/mwx-H928JXJxZ4EK3g02ceg) and [warpedchyld](http://tmblr.co/mlebS9_apDBOYl0jM3N3ADg) for reading this over!]

 

**Through the Chrysalis**

**March 21**

**Hannibal**

The spring equinox is an auspicious time, a time of renewal and new beginnings. The flower and garden beds this year are rich, the soil thick and tenacious enough to stay under my nails long after I've come inside and washed my hands repeatedly. There's something infinitely satisfying in that, and in looking over the prepared flower and garden beds while I sit in my yard. The mint and anise tea is cool and sweet on the tongue, and my body burns and aches with the activity. I've mended well from the stabbing, but the weeks of convalescence have weakened me, and it's time again to begin an exercise regime. The sun is warm today, but not blistering, and the sky is blue and appears endless. It is a day laden with possibilities. Perhaps I will take a long walk, and I will be able to forget about Will for a little while.

I yet love him, of course. There is no denying that. But as the weeks have passed, and as I've stopped calling him, and trying to reach him -- just as he wished -- the pain of our separation has lessened. Though I have my plans to lure him again, according to Abigail he's found someone else. However much I would enjoy snapping this interloper's neck I will abstain, for now. I wish to know more about this man, Francis Dolarhyde, and I wish to know more about what Will feels for him, and how exactly Dolarhyde has entranced Will. Perhaps it is only infatuation or lust, and will run its course in time, and I will be able to speak to Will then, and offer him comfort. If it is more than infatuation or lust, I must know how I might best situate myself, so when the time comes, Will will understand that the best course of action will be to return to me.

So I will wait. I am a patient man, after all.

I could wait whole lifetimes for Will Graham.

The phone rings, and it's not an irritating interruption.  

"Hannibal Lecter speaking."

"Hannibal," Jack Crawford says on the other end.

I have to admit my stomach lurches a little. I have to be rude, forgoing etiquette to ask: "Is something wrong with Will?"

"No," Jack says, with a snort. "No. This is not about him. In fact, I've been calling him and he won't pick up, but I don't think it's because anything is wrong. I think he's ignoring me."

Ah, Jack.

"He is on sabbatical last I heard. He is allowed not to work sometimes. You know what it does to his mental health when he works too much."

"Yes, of course, Doctor," Jack says smoothly, as if he has never tried to manipulate Will.

"But this is less about him and more about you," he continues. "I'd like you to come and consult on a crime scene."

"Oh?"

"Yes, it's a . . . slippery case already, Doctor, and I could definitely use your keen insight."

"I shall endeavor to do my best," I say, writing down the address Jack gives me.

"I'm sure you'll do better than that," Jack says before hanging up.  

I do so enjoy it when Jack wants something and tries to ingratiate himself. He appeals to my ego, naturally, and I know he does, but it's still incredibly invigorating.

* * *

The scene is in a rather dank and neglected part of town, not surprisingly perhaps, an alley behind a hotel that smells of urine and semen and garbage and -- something else -- that I cannot quite identify.

Beverly Katz, slender and tough, holds the police tape up for me when I arrive.

"Hey," she says as I duck below the tape. "How are you?"

"I am well, Ms. Katz. How are you?"

"Peachy," she says, sardonically. "Have you heard from Will lately?"

"I have not."

"Sorry, I probably shouldn't have asked," she says, leading me to the scene proper, a small damp alley between two brick buildings.

"I just haven't really heard from him since . . ."

I suppose it's kind of her, at least, to not verbalize the words  _since you broke up._ I always have appreciated Ms. Katz and her eminent practicality, and her kindness towards toward Will. Her friendship seems to have made him happy, and since it never encroached on my relationship with him, was not something I'd begrudge them.

"Since he's been with this . . . other guy he's kind of vanished," she says.

"Ah. It sometimes happens that way," I say.

I feel a tug in the gut, like stitches coming undone, though my wound healed well some weeks ago.

"Well, you're the new Will Graham."

The smell is stronger here in the poorly lit alley, and I wonder that no-one else can notice it. It's sharp and bright against the grainy smell of rot. It even over-rides the urine, semen, and blood. It's splash of color in an otherwise crowded and muddled landscape. What is more is that I know this smell, intimately.

"He was choked to death first," Beverly begins to explain the body in the back of the alley. Though she is close to me, and the body, her voice seems increasingly distant.

"Then he was strung up and castrated. Zeller said there might be object insertion, but --"

"No, there won't be," I say, and it takes every measure of my self control not to laugh, to keep the joy I feel inside me contained.

"Well, the killer did castrate him and dump the jewels in the dumpster."

"Have you identified the victim?"

"Yeah," she says. "He actually has some priors, from more than a decade ago. Price and Zeller are working on finding out more."

"What was he arrested for?"

"Repeated disorderly conduct and indecent exposure, but nothing else officially. He was investigated for a string of kidnappings, rapes, and murders. Girls, ages 12-13, were being taken. He was questioned but no charges were brought. That was ten years ago. Nothing else since."

It is as I thought.

I allow myself a deep breath, inhaling that smell: of pine forests and rivers, of sex and desire red as blood on his teeth, on his hands.

I look at the body a little, and pretend to have more than cursory interest in this contemptible lump of flesh. He'd been a very wretched man to earn this fate.

I recognize the knots in the ropes binding the body. They speak of an agile mind and nimble, firm hands. Hands which shook only slightly this first time.

The ropes binding his man's naked body have contorted and bent him into an unnatural shape. I smile at this: unnatural in death as he had been in life. 

Foreign scents which don't belong to this alley, nor the city, also waft off the man: snow banks and willow, and something dank and dark, like old ditch-water. 

"It's a form of erotic bondage," I tell Beverly, pointing to the knots. "Kinbaku. It's not necessarily sexual, though, and you will notice that the killer contorted his body to render him grotesque. The body seems to have been moved. He wasn’t killed here. And the castration," I say, noting the wound. "It's punishment. This killer felt the man committed those rapes and murders. This killer felt . . . righteous."

"A vengeance killing?" Beverly cocked her head.

"This was not mere vengeance, Ms. Katz," I say slowly. "This was a reckoning."

Beverly nods. "Jack thought it was sexual."

"Sex and violence are often conflated," I say.

I am able to maintain my composure while speaking to Jack, though I wonder if I have already given too much away. Jack asks me if I thought this killer would leave more bodies, or if this was a single incident. I tell him what he wants to hear: this is probably the work of a vigilante, who feels he is administering justice. I say nothing more and Jack nods, believing his own assumption that this is an isolated incident.  

But I'm hopeful this -- budding artist -- will leave more exquisite work for me to study. It's true that this killing is crude, but the marks of artistry, of genius, could not be more plain. It's a pity I cannot take any pictures. I shall have to see if I can get access to the crime scene photos at some juncture, so I can peruse over them at my leisure.

As I return to my car, the killer's smell buoys me. I wait until I am home, the door locked safely behind me, before I allow my joy to express itself. My hands are trembling and I feel short of breath. I whisper his name over and over again:

Will. Will.  _Will._

I am so proud of him and what he has finally done on his own.


	152. The Blood Dimmed Tide Is Loosed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I had to know the truth about myself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Originally posted here.](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/117117366323/the-blood-dimmed-tide-is-loosed-march-21)

[OOC: This follows the previous chapter, though, chronologically it occurs before. I added some details to the last timestamp so they would fit more with this one.

Contains: second person, murder, some graphic violence, murder boners, a brief mention of teenage sexuality.

Title borrowed from [The Second Coming](http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/172062). Because I am a nerd like that.]

* * *

 

**The Blood Dimmed Tide Is Loosed**

**March 21**

**Wil** l

I had to know the truth about myself. If I wanted this for myself, and not because of you.

It was easy.  _Too_ easy. I picked up the trail where I'd left off, more than a decade ago, when a friend on the force asked me to look at a case for her. I was never officially on the case, but I remember the names of all the victims. I remember the perp.

I tracked him to where he lives -- lived -- conveniently in Washington D.C. I watched and waited. Between visits to Frank and Abigail, I learned the perp's schedule. I learned when he would be out of town on a fishing trip to Kentucky, of all places. A bit of a drive. Long stretches of deserted, empty road, without witnesses.

That's where he found me.

You would have been so proud. I put on my best helpless act. Even you might have been convinced. I plied my beauty and my fragility. Maybe I spoke a little childishly -- girlishly even -- just to put him at ease. To make him think I wasn't a threat, and that he had the power. I was just some effeminate pussy who didn't know about cars, unlike a real man, like him.

I took him in the ditch, behind a thicket of willows. There was no moon and the stars shone like nails in the night. Thesounds he made as he struggled to breathe; you can well imagine.  

I recited the names of each of his victims back to him. There was something like fear in his face, before the veins in his eyes burst.

I was half hard by then, of course. But there wasn't time for it. Not yet. Not when I had to remove him from the scene, and get him back into the city. It would make things infinitely harder for Jack and company -- my own friends and coworkers -- to put the pieces together. Jack will think it's some kind of ritual rather than based on practicality. Jack likes his bombastic and ridiculous explanations sometimes, despite the fact the simpler ones make it, well, simpler.

You might ask me why I didn't dismember the body and leave it in the woods for the animals to gnaw on? Why risk discovery at all?

Having strangled him, I didn't feel as if I was finished yet. His flesh was like clay. And there was a story to sculpt. I improvised. He had some rope in the trunk of his car for some reason, the shitty plastic kind you use to tie down tarps and the like. So I took it and bound him. I wrapped him in garbage bags and threw him in the trunk of my car, and drove back into the city. I had picked out the alley earlier, and knew it would be deserted that time of night. It was quick work to dump him there.

The finishing touch was the castration. It feltapropos, after what he had done, and I didn't experience even a twinge of empathy for him. I thought of taking his particulars and cooking them up and serving them to my dogs, but I threw them in the dumpster instead.

My dogs deserve better meat. The castration was also a bit too gaudy for me. Unnecessary. In the future I won't let myself be so carried away.

Though I don't have a murder suit like you, I was careful. I used gloves, which I destroyed, when I cut him, and I didn't get any blood or fluid on me. And I cut him with his own pocket knife, which I also threw in the dumpster. Still, I cleaned my car out thoroughly when I got home. I washed my clothes on the highest temperature possible, and I took a hot, lingering shower.

There, in the white bathroom light, so bright it scalded the backs of my eyes, I was finally able to stroke myself. I remembered strangling him and moaned as I orgasmed the first time.

I said your name as I did. I whimpered for you. For your hands and mouth on me. For your cock. I got hard again and pressed my body against the shower tiles, pushing two soapy fingers inside me, fucking myself, imaging you thrusting into me.  

I said your name when I came the second time, shaking and sore.

I thought I would call Frank. It was late by then, or early, depending, and I ached with adrenaline and exhaustion. There was a part of me which was beginning to panic. To really understand what I'd done.

So I called Frank and tried to jerk off a third time, to something normallike the sound of my boyfriend's drowsy voice. He is terrible at dirty talk, and especially phone sex, but it wouldn't have mattered.

I pretended to come and hung up on him and then lay in the dark.

So here I am. Waiting for the sunrise. Talking to you as if you're actually here.

But then, in a way you are. You were there with me the whole time. I imagined you there, at least. Murmuring approval and encouragement, or voicing your disapproval with silence. You were there in my mind, whether I wanted you to be or not.

Hannibal.

You were right.

I've never told anyone, not even you, but I noticed that violence aroused me from an early age. I wasn't any older than twelve or thirteen. A kid at school bullied me and I finally fought back. There was blood everywhere when a teacher pulled me off. The other kid's face looked like minced beef. I was lucky I only got suspended and his family didn't press charges.

I left that fight shaking and dizzy and  _wanting._

Hey maybe I'm like this because the empathy disorder has gone and tangled up all the wiring in my brain.

Or maybe it's because this is actually who I am.

But ever since that day . . . it felt like that fight never really ended. I had to keep slugging it out, only with myself.

It's been one long goddamn fight, and I'm tired of fighting.


	153. Seeing Someone Else

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Did Hannibal start seeing someone else after you ended things?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Originally posted here.](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/117174825633/did-hannibal-start-seeing-someone-else-after-you)

[OOC: You guys know the drill! The first part is Will’s official part, the second part, after the asterisks, is stuff he withheld.

Warnings for noncon and abusive behavior.

With apologies to this anon because they waited two months for this reply. O_O I hope it will be worth the wait!]

 

* * *

 

> **Did Hannibal start seeing someone else after you ended things? If so, how did you feel when you found out?**

 

He hasn’t as far as I know, anon. None of our mutual friends or acquaintances have said anything about Hannibal dating someone else, not even Abigail. Though, they could be withholding information out of some sense of kindness towards me.

I suppose I would be jealous to some degree. Despite the fact he is my ex, he’s still, objectively speaking, “a catch”. The only reason he wouldn’t partnered is, to my mind, because he chooses not to be. Hannibal can be a very singular person.

I did see him for the first time since I broke up with him, almost three weeks ago.

Seeing one’s ex for the first time after a break up is always interesting. And by “interesting” I mean “excruciating”. In the past, I’ve usually felt relief at some point. A “thank God we are over” type of moment that makes things easier.

Hannibal, being Hannibal, was different, however. I felt surprised.

He’d cut his hair, wore leather, and had just pulled up to the curb on a motorcycle.

I stood there gawping – I’m not sure how long. But he finally said, “Hello Will,” and smiled a little mischievously.

We talked a little bit – not very long. I was out with Frank that day, so, Hannibal and I ended up going or own ways after a minute.

That’s all I can tell about it, really.

* * *

**April 4**

**Will**

I wasn’t sure at first, as he rumbled into the motorcycle spot. But as soon as he’d parked and dismounted, I knew. I would know the easy, graceful movement of his body anywhere.

He was gorgeous, even with his short hair sticking out at odd angles after he removed his helmet. He smoothed it down while I stood in the middle of the street, awkwardly staring at him.

Frank had ducked into a nearby store, grumbling that he needed a bathroom. I don’t think our lunch sat well with him. He’s always anxious. It was endearing once, how he could fret about anything and everything, but it’s become wearying. It’s like walking on eggshells around him, normalcy or not.

And then there was Hannibal, the sun shining over his shoulders. Though his hair was shorter – and I felt a kind of grief for this longer hair, remembered twining my fingers in it – the shorter cut made him seem more like  _himself_ in some way. He seemed more aloof and alien _._ His cheeks and chin were all the sharper, and his lips all the more sensuous. It was disconcerting.

“You cut your hair,” I sputtered.

“Hello Will,” he said softly.

His smile was feral and inviting.

Goddammit, I thought.

“I’m here with Frank,” I said quickly.

To anyone else he probably appeared to be smiling, still. But the way his smile stuck, I could tell he was forcing it.

He came closer, and I thought he might lean in and smell me.

“Jesus, Hannibal,” I said as he crowded me.

I wanted to wrap my entire body around his and hold on. I wanted to touch the scar on his belly from the knife wound.

“How are you?” I asked.

“I must congratulate you,” he whispered so only I could hear. From the outside, the way we leaned towards one another must have appeared very intimate.

“Congratulate?”

“[On your work](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/115144880194/through-the-chrysalis-march-21-timestamp),” he said slowly. “[From a few weeks ago](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/117117366323/the-blood-dimmed-tide-is-loosed-march-21).”

So he had been consulted for the scene.

I wanted to ask him what he thought. I wanted to tell him how I’d felt. How glorious it had been to finally let go, to stop fighting myself. To tell him he had been right about me.

And maybe, I had been wrong about leaving him. Maybe I had even begun to think of forgiving him for lying. I had daydreamed of talking to him again just to hear his voice, and to have someone in my life who understood.  

“Oh,” I said, because it was a little much to process in the middle of a busy street on a sunny Saturday afternoon.

“It was beautiful,” he said, and I shivered, leaning closer to him so I could hear better.

“Moving it was … a nice touch,” he added. “But the way you shaped the material …” he paused.

I probably shouldn’t have, but I still reached out to brush the tear from the corner of his eye. His skin was soft and warm. He caught my hand, and held it, our fingers briefly lacing, until Frank bumped into the both of us.

“Excuse me,” he bristled, glaring at Hannibal.

Hannibal blinked and looked Frank up and down, slowly, which only made Frank angrier.

“This is Frank,” I said. “Frank, this is – Hannibal.”

“Pleasure,” Hannibal said without much enthusiasm.

“Right,” Frank said, scowling.

“Don’t be rude, Frank,” I laughed, trying to lighten the mood. The pair of them glowered so viciously, I worried they might start tearing at each other in the middle of the street.

“It was a pleasure seeing you again, Will,” Hannibal said. “I sincerely hope to see you again in the near future.”

He turned and walked away.

I probably shouldn’t have watched him for as long as I did.

“So that’s your ex,” Frank said, as if he’d tasted curdled milk. “He was all over you.”

“He’s Hannibal,” I shrugged as we walked back towards Frank’s car. “He has – boundary problems.”

“I don’t like it,” Frank said.

“You don’t have to,” I retorted.

His silence for the entire drive to his apartment probably should have warned me.

His apartment is tidy and frankly dreary. He keeps the blinds closed all the time, and he has all these morbid William Blake posters and prints on his walls. About the only really cheerful thing about his apartment are the pictures he has of Molly and her husband and himself, from their years in the military, before Molly’s husband died on tour.

We were only a few steps into his apartment when he grabbed me and shoved me into a wall. The pictures on the wall rattled.

“Frank –”

“Do you have feelings for him still?” he asked, pressing his crotch into my ass. I could feel his erection already through our jeans.

“Yes,” I said. “That’s what happens when you date someone –”

“Do you  _love_ him still?”

He reached around and squeezed me through my jeans. I tried to wriggle out of his grasp.

“Can we not have this conversation against a wall while you’re trying to dry hump –”

“You’re  _mine,_ ” Frank growled, yanking my hair.

There was something about his tone, about the way he pushed against me and pulled on my hair, that made me go silent and still.

“You  _owe_ me loyalty,” he said, unzipping my jeans and pulling my pants down.

I didn’t move when I felt his cock slide between my ass-cheeks, and as he rubbed against me. Neither did he wait for me to respond. He just kept grinding, and saying I was his, until he came with a whimper, his cum gummy against my skin.  

“Thanks,” I said sarcastically, shoving him off me and going to the bathroom.

I locked myself in there, and contemplated escaping through the window, while I wiped him off me. I’ve been used, for lack of better terms, as a veritable cum dumpster before. I’ve had men and women take turns on me. I’ve let Hannibal use me for an entire weekend once – I basically was his slave, and I had to service him sexually whenever he pleased. But I had  _asked_ in all of those cases. I had wanted to be used. And I felt filthier after Frank had humped and come on me than any other time I could remember being used.

“Will?” he asked through the door. He sounded heartbroken. As if he were the one who’d just been forced against a wall and had his boyfriend masturbate on him without so much as a “by your leave”.

“Fuck you Frank.”

“I’m sorry, Will,” he said. “I’m so sorry.”

I heard a gasp through the door, and then a snuffling, like Frank was crying.

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done that. I. I’m really bad at this. I have problems.”

“No shit,” I said, and, opened the door.

Frank looked at the floor. Even so, his body shivered with a kind of barely controlled rage.

“I just don’t like it when you flirt with other people.”

“I wasn’t flirting _._ ”

“I don’t like it when you look either, and you do look Will.”

“Everyone looksFrank, it doesn’t mean –”

“Have you fucked other people Will? While you were with me?”

The truth was: yes. But we hadn’t had any discussions about exclusivity, much less anything to do with being his or vice versa. I suppose he assumed I would be, and I hadn’t mentioned it. Between the two of us we’d done a fine job on clarifying that.  

“I’m going home. We can talk about this in a few days,” I said, hoping he would let me leave. If he didn’t, I would have to count on being faster, though I didn’t know if I was against him. With Hannibal, maybe, but that simply by virtue of being younger.

Frank looked like he might want to wrap his hands around my throat and only let go when I stopped moving.

Then he sighed, loud and long, a heavy sound.

“I’m really sorry Will,” he said.

I walked out of the apartment and to my car. I was halfway home before I began laughing hysterically, an eruption of fear and panic. I started laughing so hard I had to pull over.

I thought of turning back, and driving to Hannibal’s house. I was curious to see the reaction he’d have to what Frank had done. It was possible Frank might not even live to see the next morning. That thought was so satisfying – and oddly calming – that I was able to drive the rest of the way home.


	154. Regarding Will's Recent Absence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It is with regret I write to inform you that his absence in the past weeks was not at all planned, but the unfortunate result of an incident which landed dear Will in the hospital.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Originally posted here.](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/119034416403/regarding-wills-recent-absence)

May 15, 2015

Dear Readers,

It is with both regret and relief that I find myself writing here, of my own accord, rather than strictly at good Will's request. Abigail would have, but she found the task too difficult, and understandably so.

It is with regret I write to inform you that his absence in the past weeks was not at all planned, but the unfortunate result of an incident which landed dear Will in the hospital. (And I believe you will agree with me that [we have seen enough of hospitals this year.](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/106831492208/well-happy-fucking-new-year)) This incident did involve a certain [Mr. Dolarhyde](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/109810503728/will-you-have-been-breaking-my-heart-but-i-need), [whom you might have heard of](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/117174825633/did-hannibal-start-seeing-someone-else-after-you). He is currently at large. This is all I can legally divulge, as there is an ongoing investigation into his whereabouts and activities. 

It is with relief, however, that I write to inform you that Will shall be fine. He has sustained injuries, yes, some of them grievous, but he is recovering well and swiftly. There may be many months ahead of medical follow up and procedures. Rest assured he is in the best possible hands.

I am usually adverse to sharing details with such a public audience, but I know that Will derives joy from this "blog" of his, and I cannot deny him his simple pleasures.

Now that I have lifted the veil, so to speak, I do hope you won't mind that I draw it back again. There will be a time and place for enquiries, which I am sure you have, regarding the current nature of my relationship with Will. As with all things in life: that is constantly changing and evolving. This is all I will share at this juncture. However, I am sure when Will is sufficiently recovered he will be fiendishly glad to divulge more.

Until then, warm regards from myself, and most certainly from Will.

\- Hannibal


	155. Bitter would have me taste (my taste was me)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I can't say anything for a moment. I’m sinking, quick and easy, into the familiarity of his voice. 
> 
> "Will, is something wrong?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Originally posted here.](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/120373404823/bitter-would-have-me-taste-my-taste-was-me)

[This section follows [directly after the last one](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/117174825633/did-hannibal-start-seeing-someone-else-after-you).

This section is rough. Warnings for: psychological trauma related to sexual assault, self medication, (justifiable) paranoia, panic attacks, Will being, well, Will, Hannibal being . . . actually the best. <3

But if you get through the rough stuff, there is hurt/comfort at the end. :)

Because I am not original with titles, I stole this one from [Gerard Manley Hopkins](http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/173661).] 

 

* * *

 

**Bitter would have me taste (my taste was me)**

**Will**

 

**April 4**

It's still early when I get home, sunset only just reddening the sky. Dinner is two fingers of whiskey, neat and quick. Water scalding down my back as I shower, scrub the scent of Frank out of me. Air dry and lay on my bed, staring at the ceiling and listening to the dogs mill.

Two more fingers of whiskey, the taste murkier with each swallow. The fabric of my cotton shirt and boxer-briefs a soft, reassuring whisper on my skin.

Frank's hand on my shoulder, pinning me. His cock slithering against me.  

Another two fingers, to settle my stomach, and then another two send me spinning into sleep.

 

**April 5**

Morning light feels like an iron file drawn across my skull. This toast is repulsive and -- hairy.

27 call notifications stab me in the eyes when I check my phone. 16  are voicemail, and all Frank.

Frank Frank Frank. Frank apologizing. Frank rationalizing and explaining. Frank saying he's trying. Frank saying he didn't mean it. Frank demanding I pick up the phone. Frank telling me not to be such a cunt and call him back. Frank saying he's sorry.

If I played all the messages, it would be an endless loop that doubles back on itself. I laugh but that makes me want to throw up again, so instead I drink chamomile tea and go back to bed. Buster and Zoe hop into bed and snuggle against me.

Too bullshit for this tired and drunk.

 

**April 7**

_You said we'd talk in 2 days_.  _It's been 3._

Just another Frank text to ignore and delete, like all his calls and voicemails _._ I'm one part anger, one part bewilderment, two parts afraid.

I still feel him shoving me against the wall.

For nothing but a bit of unmutual masturbation, the way it keeps worming it’s way into my mind is insidious. 

 

**April 8**

Summer sun, glistening on the river. The cool currents moving around my thighs as I wade into the middle. The hum of the line against my fingers as I cast. The silver arc of that line which, for a moment, is endless.

It's a nice dream. I think about it for a long time after waking up, keeping my eyes closed, trying to find my way back to it. That golden cocoon of safety.

Bed is comforting and warm, not sticky and damp with anxiety and sleeplessness. I feel clearer than I have since Frank -- well. Probably the fact I stopped drinking yesterday afternoon helped. And the smell of bacon, wafting through the air.

I languish in it, sleepily, but there's footsteps, and a voice in my kitchen.

"I don't think Will wants you to have bacon, Buster."

I  _have_  to be fucking hallucinating.

Out of bed, quiet and careful. It's a good thing I've always kept my father's old Charter Arms .44 Bulldog cleaned and oiled. The bullets slide silently into the chamber. The weight of the gun anchors me as I pad soundlessly into the kitchen.

Frank, at the stove with a pan of bacon, and surrounded by pleading dogs, turns and smiles.

"Will, you're up," he chimes. "I made you breakfast. I thought we could talk."

In my  _goddamn house._ I laugh because it's about the only response I can have for feeling this utterly violated.

"What the fuck Frank?"

"Your doors were open, like always," he says.

Anger. This is isn't righteous anger; it's thick and dark, suffocating.

I whistle and all the dogs rush into the living room, a blur of fur and tails. I point and cock point the gun. The smile melts from Frank's face.

"I just want to talk --"

"You're trespassing. [Castle doctrine](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Castle_doctrine) says I put a bullet through your head."

He blinks and looks far too --  _un_ worried.

"I just wanted to talk --"

"Get. Out."

"But I made you breakfast --" .

I fire a bullet into the floor. Unfortunately, my aim is so bad I don't even miss him enough to hit him on accident.

"I will count to three," I say.

Please don't fucking call my bluff, Frank. 

"One."

He looks like he wants to cut me open.

"Two."

He ducks out, back door snapping after him.

I listen to him walk the perimeter, and watch through the living room windows as he gets into his van and drives off.

I leave the .44 on the mantle and sag into the couch, exhausted. The dogs, a furious mill of tails and wet noises, crowd me.

He used to be a sniper.

The thought numbs me as I climb out of the dog pile and clean up the mess he made. The dogs get all the burnt bacon, but not the grease. I spill it, while it's still hot, all over my shin. The skin there burns red and shiny from the burn.

Fuck.

Two fingers of whiskey and some coffee before my hands are finally steady, and I can breathe.

It's fine.

Two more fingers make it even more fine.

 

**April 10**

Making the bed, smoothing out all the wrinkles, ignoring the darkening sweat stains. Neat corners everything tucked in.

A shadow through the window: pale face and dark hair, a splash of red in the dim morning light. He's there and gone and I sit and stare out the window until the remains of the night lift and all I see is the empty forest.  

There are boot-prints outside though, in the mud, the same size Frank wears.

 

**April 13**

He calls from anonymous phones and blocked numbers, and hangs up after I answer.

_How do you know it's him?_ Abigail texts me.

I laugh and sound hysterical, even though it's just me and my dogs. Of course I don't have  _empirical evidence_ but I  _know._ I don't profile psychopaths and sociopaths for a living or anything.

_I'm fine,_ she adds.  _Really I am. You don't have to text all the time. Frank hasn't even been around Molly's house for weeks. You probably need sleep. Maybe see a doctor or a therapist?_

Well she's not  _wrong_.

Still. He could shoot me through my window while I'm reading. He could pick off my dogs one by one just to fuck with me, and shoot me last. He could wait until Abigail visits and shoot her right in front of me.

I've checked the woods every day, more than once, and I haven't seen anything. Not yet.

 

**April 14**

I don't think I'll need the valium tonight. Three fingers of whiskey before bed should do it. And having the .44 close.

 

**April 15**

I dream of food. The oozing, delicious warmth of filet mignon, crusted with black pepper and blue cheese. It melts in my mouth like butter. The blood drizzles past my lips and I lick up each drop.

"Very good Will," Hannibal says from across the table.

For some reason we're in my kitchen. It's warm and dark. Our knees rub together under the table, a friction which makes me shiver happily.

He puts his hand on mine, rubbing his thumb across my knuckles.

I love him.

Waking, I am not sure where the dream ends and consciousness begins.

 

**April 17**

"Well your enchephalitis is not back," the neurologist says cheerfully.

I want Dr. Sutcliffe. At least he knows me. He wouldn't have spent ten irritating minutes shuffling through my files and loudly clearing his throat. If I wasn't so exhausted I'd punch Dr. -- Whatever-- in the face. I downed a whole pot of jarringly strong coffee just so I could drive to my appointment. Now I just feel all drained and grainy.

The nurse said I fell asleep while they did the MRI.

"There's no tumors, nothing out of the ordinary as far as I can see, though that doesn't cancel out things like mood disorders or schizophrenia," he says smoothly. "Do you have a history of depression or anxiety Mr. Graham?"

Oh, here we go.

"Wow I've never been screened for any of that stuff, working for the FBI and all."

"I'm just trying to help you Mr. Graham."

He's so fucking  _genial._

"No, and no," I say.

"It could be stress reactions to some kind of trauma."

The profundity, it amazes.

"Yeah, right, okay."

"I recommend you see a psychiatrist or a psychologist," he says after a minute.

Round and round we go. Where it stops I already know.

"I have a list of mental health professionals I can refer --"

"No thanks," I say.

In the car, I'm dismayed I only have a few valium left. Maybe I should go back to the smiling neurologist and play nice so he will write me another prescription.

It's warm in the back seat, but not stifling, so I wrap myself in my coat and decide to nap before driving home.

Fingers -- claws? -- scratch over the window glass, waking me. The night is dark and starless and I'm alone in the parking lot. I see black shapes everywhere, but it's just my mind, it's just my mind. It's not him. I fumble for my keys and turn the engine over.

If I can just get home and get some whiskey in me it will be all right. He's not here. It's just my mind.

I make it halfway before my vision closes in, and pressure crushes me. I'm going to throw up, so I pull over. But my whole body freezes, stuck. I can't even breathe. I vaguely rock in the front seat, hoping not to pass out.  

My body unfreezes and the air feels like knives plunging down my throat. The pain subsides though, and my vision widens. I can make it home.

A long bath -- enough that my fingers turn white and wrinkly -- and I have the last of my valium with a whiskey chaser.

 

**April 21**

Frank fucks me face first into the bed. He tells me he loves me as he splits me open with each thrust. The sheets are bloody and he won't stop.

Only a fucking nightmare.

If I tell myself that enough, maybe it will be real and I'll be able to move and breathe again. I can't even see a fucking thing, except a tiny white pinpoint.

When the episode begins to pass, my muscles shriek. My throat is raw. I can't even fucking stand. Great. There's nothing for it but to lie on the bathroom floor, letting cold tiles numb me.

These -- episodes -- are not a fluke, not if this was the third one since the doctor's office. There will be another. And another after. It begins as a prickle somewhere in my diaphragm, bile crawling up my throat.

The prickle's still there as I haul myself off the bathroom floor and drink water from the tap.

Yes, it's rude as fuck because it's 3 a.m., but 3 a.m. is just about the perfect time not to give a fuck any more. Especially not when that prickle is already creeping higher and higher in my throat.

So I dial, sweaty fingers smudging my phone screen.

"Hello?" his voice is drowsy and makes me ache with longing.

"Hannibal," I stammer. I wedge myself in the corner of my bathroom, just to feel like I won't shatter.

Such a fragile little teacup.  

"Will?" he says, the sleep clearing from his voice. "This is shockingly rude, even for you."

I can't say anything for a moment. I’m sinking, quick and easy, into the familiarity of his voice. 

"Will, is something wrong?"

A bit of the tension leaves me when I hear the worry in his voice. It's subtle. He would sound clinical to anyone else, but not to me.

"I just . . . I can't sleep and I needed -- wanted -- someone to talk to. I'm sorry I woke you --"

I laugh. I probably sound like a maniac.

"Don't hang up," he says. "If you need someone to talk to, by all means." I hear a rustling like he's turning over in bed.

"I'm here, Will. I'm listening," he says.

 I don't say anything for a long time.

"I have a new composition," Hannibal says.

"Oh?"

"Yes, I am quite enjoying it," he says. He sounds good. He sounds happy. But then, he was usually happy.  Murder seemed to have that effect on him.

"As I mentioned when I saw you last, I very much enjoyed [your own recent composition](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/115144880194/through-the-chrysalis-march-21-timestamp)," he says.

"Huh?"

"Your work . . . [your particular design](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/117117366323/the-blood-dimmed-tide-is-loosed-march-21)?" I can hear the smile on his lips. The way he pauses indicates a kind of fond humor. It warms me.

"Oh. Yeah. I uhm. Yeah," I say. It seems like a long time ago. I wanted to tell him about it, desperately, but now -- that desire’s gone. 

There’s dread, and fear, but not desire, or want. 

Hannibal waits. 

"I enjoyed it," I say finally. "It was intriguing."

"I would say 'intriguing' is one way to characterize it," he replies.

"How else would you characterize . . . it?"

"I already told you it was beautiful."

"You did."

"How did that make you feel?"

“Flattered, I guess."

"I’m glad," he says. "But if I were pressed to say more about it . . . it didn't  _quite_  reach levels of exquisite, yet."

"Oh Doctor," I say, trying to sound teasing but it just comes out limp and weary.

"But I would say there is overwhelming promise, and I do hope that you continue to explore this new outlet of yours."

"Thank you," I say.

"Speaking of new outlets . . . how is your new beau?"

"We . . . we're not together."

"Oh."

Silence.

"Is that why you called? "

He sounds  _hurt._

"No -- Hannibal. I needed something to talk to. But you're not some . . . rebound option. Oh god,  _never_."

Great job, Graham. Either I make it sound like I want a rebound fuck or that I’d never date him or -- something --

"I don't mean -- Jesus --" I sighed. "I just meant --"

More silence.

"Will, did something happen?"

He sounds defensive now, preemptively angry that Frank would do something to me.

"No, I'm -- I'm fine."

"You don't sound it," he murmurs. "At any rate, I'm a little surprised with you, calling like this. If I were your therapist, and not your former partner, I would characterize this as inappropriate."

There are mountains of things he doesn't say, but which I hear.

"I'm sorry. It was wrong of me. I didn't know who else to turn to."

He makes a noise.

"Why don't we talk over dinner?" he asks. "That is, if it's amenable to you."

"Y-yeah. Yeah. That sounds really -- good -- actually. Is it like . . . a dinner date or just dinner?"

"It is whatever you need it to be."

I think about that. About Hannibal's lips and hands on me again.

I only feel Frank.

"Just dinner," I say. "For now."

"For now," he muses. "I'm glad. Try to get some sleep, Will. We can make arrangements later."

When I wake up I've slept twelve hours, and feel lighter, brighter. I make myself breakfast for dinner, and I don't want  the whiskey. Nor do I want it as I wrap myself in a blanket and read before going back to bed.

My dreams are full of tender, sweet meat, and rivers coursing past my thighs.


	156. In the Afterbirth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Their murderer feels like nothing I've ever encountered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Originally posted here.](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/120625595678/in-the-afterbirth)

[ **OOC:** This follows after [the last section](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/120373404823/bitter-would-have-me-taste-my-taste-was-me).

Warnings for: holy extreme violence and gore Batman. I recreated, in part, one of the murders from  _Red Dragon_ , including the murder of children.I tried not to be too explicit, but just so you know.

I also took liberties with the murders, altering details to fit my version of the characters and events.]

* * *

**In the Afterbirth**

**April 24**

**Will**

The phone rings as I come in from an afternoon run with the dogs.

At least it's not Frank. I peel off my sweat soaked shirt and pick up.

"Jack, is it weird to say I'm glad you called?" I laugh, toeing my shoes off.

"You probably won't say that when I tell you why," Jack says.

"Is everything okay?"

"We have a . . . really bad scene here Will. I know you're still on sabbatical, but I could really use your help."

I exhale, relieved. A scene isn't actually good news, but at least I won't be looking at Abigail's body, or Hannibal's. Or I won't  _be_  the dead body.

Well, not today.

"Yeah, sure."

"Really?" Jack sounds a little too happy about this. The scene must be a clusterfuck.

All the better. A clusterfuck -- grisly, complicated -- is better than sitting around waiting for Frank to come after me.

"Yeah," I tell Jack.  "Give me the address."

Anticipation throbs in my veins as I shed the rest of my clothes, and shower.

A fresh scene. A puzzle. Something to do. Something I'm  _good_ at.  

I might not be able to control or catch Frank, but I can damn well catch _this_  one.

Stepping out of the shower, I actually feel clean.

* * *

Outside Baltimore. One of those suburbs that look so benign and quaint with their cookie cutter houses, precisely groomed lawns, and housewives who jog in matched outfits. The family portraits are always so perfectly posed, everyone's smiles stretched inhumanly wide.

A catacomb of secrets, places like this. Real family, like people, is messy. Sins and secrets can't just be dusted off, and you can't drop off repressed memories like you can drop the kids off at lacrosse practice.

But how people try.

The Jacobi's house is austere and pristine. Even every inch of the place fairly gleams, and despite having a dog there's not a single hair on any furniture. The kids' bedrooms are as clean and orderly as if they were in the military, even though they can't be older than ten.

These are all part of the human veil. I crouch on the floor, examining fat tracks of blood.

Blood is the truth; it's what lingers what the human veil is lifted.

He shot the kids in their beds, then dragged them out. The blood travels across the carpet, into the hallway and the master bedroom. Blood so fresh the air is hot and metallic with it.

What does the Jacobi's façade hide?

Livid plumes of arterial spray all over the master bedroom. Mrs. Jacobi, shot in the stomach. Her husband's throat torn open. Her dead children. All their corpses are together now, sat on the floor and propped up by the bed. Their eyes wink with slivers of mirror, alive-but-not. Those mirror-eyes reflect the rolling closet door, also a mirror, though shattered.

"Well, look who finally decided to show," Jimmy teases, looking up from his examination of the victim's fingernails. Searching for tissue, in case someone fought or scratched the assailant.

"Beverly sends her regards I'm sure," Brian says, bagging a slug he dug out of the mattress. "Her grandma died, so she's with her family."

"Yeah," I nod. "She called."

Brian looks surprised.

"What?"

"Well, she said you'd been really MIA since . . . you know . . ."

"Since I broke up with Hannibal?" I take my glasses off and tuck them in my shirt pocket.

"I didn't want to say --"

"It's fine."

Jimmy alleviates the tension by saying there are no signs of sexual assault.

There's something about this scene that's -- familiar. Intimate, even. But I don't --

Jack blusters in and orders everyone out. The door shuts behind me and I'm left alone with the Jacobi family.

The pendulum drops.

In shattered closet mirror, a family portrait. This broken picture is the real one, the  _truthful_  one.

The mirror-pieces leave the family's eyes. The children pick themselves off the floor like limp little puppets, and drag themselves back to bed, where they're bundled, whole and alive, sleeping. Mr. and Mrs. Jacobi also land back into bed, him first, and then her.

It's dark outside, a half moon glowing over the neat lawns and silent houses.

Their murderer feels like nothing I've ever encountered. There aren't knives in him, nor fire. There is desert sun. An acidic, burning smell. Coils and scales.

He enters through the back door and strips naked except for a pair of gloves. He stuffs his clothes into the gym bag he brought. He has to be naked when he walks into this place: it allows him to shed his human form.

He winds his way up the stairs, silent. He feels powerful and beautiful. He's not aroused. This makes him feel -- clean.

Holy.

He shoots Mrs. Jacobi quite expertly in the stomach, disabling and wounding her, but not killing her. She watches while he slits her husband's throat. The blood washes over her.  

He shoots the children too, but he hesitates. Did Mrs. Jacobi cry out? -- but then it's done. He drags their tiny bodies into the bedroom.

She's still alive as he arranges her family and sticks mirrors in their eyes.

 _See, Mother?_ he asks, leaning close while she shudders.

_You deserved this. You're shameful. Disgusting. A mere ant in the afterbirth of my becoming._

_You should be honored to see me like this. Despite what you’ve done._

She dies.

He sees me. His eyes are black, his skin pale as milk. He's a man, but he wraps himself around me like a serpent, squeezing, crushing.

"See?"

His voice thunderous.

"See, Will?"

He takes mirror pieces and shoves them in my eyes, the pain sheering through me.

"My design," he says in Frank's voice, sounding utterly pleased.  

"Will?" Jack says.

I'm on the ground and my vision widens enough that I can see Jimmy and Brian looking down at me, concerned. Jack looks pissed off -- but that is pretty much his resting face. He also looks concerned though.

"What the hell happened?" Jack asks when they get me outside.

The air smells like cut grass. Jimmy keeps trying to give me a cup of water. I take it because I want him to leave me alone.

"What?" I ask Jack.

I wish Bev were here.

"What the hell happened in there? We heard a thud and you were just on the ground like you'd fainted or passed out."

Shrug.

"Was the scene too much?"

"It wasn't --" I say. "There's something about this guy."

"What about him?"

"I don't know," I mumble, swallowing the prickle in my throat.

"Well, what  _do_ you know?" he asks.

I drink some water. It tastes like blood.

"The target was Mrs. Jacobi. The family was . . ." I shrug. "He wanted to . . . punish her. But he also wanted to fix something. To expose a truth."

"What truth?"

"That this family wasn't as -- perfect -- as it seemed. That Mrs. Jacobi had . . . done something that deserved punishment. Atonement, even."

Jack frowns.

My chest feels tight.

"You sure you're okay?" Jack asks.

I nod, vaguely.

"Why don't you go home, Will. You've done enough," Jack says. He means it kindly, but he still comes off as patronizing.

"I'll call if I think of anything," I say.

Jack holds up his hand as if to say "sure, fine" and "go away".

I sit in my car for a long time, watching cops and the FBI processing the scene.

Maybe if I sit awhile longer this feeling will go away.

But if I do, I won't make it to Hannibal's on time.

I sigh -- it doesn't help the tightness at all -- and start the car.


	157. Sweetness After Grief

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Will, the truth of psychological trauma is somewhere between denying horrible events and calling them out."
> 
> "And?" I can't keep the sarcasm out of my voice.
> 
> "And you need to stop denying, and call this out."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Originally posted here](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/121109232108/sweetness-after-grief).

[OOC: Wow this is another rough one. D: This follows almost directly [after the last segment](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/120625595678/in-the-afterbirth).

 **Warnings for:** homophobic language, sexist language, some violence, mentions of sexual assault.

There is more hurt/comfort though. :D

Title from [Rumi, as remixed by Coleman Barks](http://mresundance.tumblr.com/post/121106880102/undressing).

FYI, earlier in the story Will diagnosed Hannibal as a "sociopath", because "psychopath" is generally not used by psychologists anymore. But apparently I didn't do my research on that, because they are very different (though related) antisocial personality disorders, and the term psychopath is still used in criminal justice context. So I went back to the earlier sections of the story and changed that. Hannibal is definitely a psychopath in this 'verse, lol, bless.]

* * *

**Sweetness After Grief**

**April 24**

**Will**

Swallowing burrs.

Hannibal's dark purple tablecloth makes my hands look pale and ghostly. He rolls out the lamb, looking pleased with himself. I always enjoyed seeing him in the kitchen, or when he brought out his culinary art, if only for the simple fact that it made him happy.

"Roast spring lamb with rosé wine and oranges."

"What, no ostentatious French this evening, Doctor?"

He smiles at my tartness.

Frank scowls at me from across the table.

"Whore," he mouths.   

"Do you have any more of that champagne?" I ask Hannibal, offering my empty glass.

"You must really enjoy it, you've already had two."

He finishes serving the lamb pours me more champagne.  It's a dry and clear tasting rosé, and, I imagine, a nice compliment to the orange, and a contrast to the darker lamb. But my mouth is full of burrs, and Frank's here.

"How is it?" Hannibal asks.

"Good. Really good."

Hannibal preens. There's no palate he prefers to please more -- aside from his own -- than mine.

Frank makes a disgusted noise.

"Did you let him fuck you here? On your hands and knees?"

_Yes and yes._

"The carrots are nice too."

If I wretch that would be incredibly rude, and incredibly hurtful to Hannibal.

"You might want to slow down with the champagne, Will," Hannibal says gently.  

Yeah probably not.

Quiet, blesséd quiet, as we continue eating.

"What did you want to [talk about on the phone](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/120373404823/bitter-would-have-me-taste-my-taste-was-me) the other morning?"

Hannibal feigns polite distance, appropriate for this "not date" dinner. He still chose the black suit for this evening. It's the suit I like, because it makes his legs look particularly long and graceful. I enjoy watching him strut around in that suit.  

Just like I chose the steel blue shirt which brings out the mercurial color of my eyes. If I'd felt like teasing Hannibal with the exposed curve of my throat, I'd have undone a few buttons after leaving the crime scene. But, Frank said I was disgusting for wanting such attention. The next time he saw me, he'd treat me like the pansy I was.  

I shook so badly I had to pull over.

So I really, really don't want to talk about Frank. Not what about he did. And especially not how he followed me from the crime scene.

I almost wish he was real.

"You know, I don't really remember what upset me," I tell Hannibal.

Frank's look could wither Hannibal's entire herb garden.

"[You break up with him for lying](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/108102879043/ooc-warnings-for-angst-thanks-to) and then lie to his face? Hypocrite."

I know he's not real. He may have attacked me, but he wouldn't call me a whore or a pansy. At least I think he wouldn't. It seems more like this hallucination has raided my memory and my heart for hurtful words which have been thrown at me through the years.

It's worse that he's all in my head. I could get rid of a real Frank. I can't even close my eyes and tell this Frank to fuck off.

Hannibal looks at me for a moment. Of course he knows I'm lying.

"Really, Will? You seemed very upset on the phone."

"It passed," I shrug.

Hannibal expression says he will drop the subject, for now.

Frank comes closer.

"You are _mine._ You _owe_ me. Besides, isn't being fucked like a girl what you twinks like?"

And then: "You can't leave me, Will."

He sounds like a frightened little boy.

The prickle pushes higher up my throat, and my vision dims around the edges.

I just want one thing, one goddamn thing not tainted by this.

I just wanted dinner with Hannibal.

"Would you like to come and help me with dessert Will?" Hannibal asks.

"Or do you want to be dessert?" Frank spits. "All spread out for him, unstable little queer that you are?"

"Yeah. I'd like to help."

I nod and I stand very carefully and slowly. The pressure around my chest is tightening, the air thin.

Hannibal's saying something about strawberries, and angel food cake -- simple and delicious -- would I help with the cream? White fluffy blobs that won't stay on the stupidly tiny plates, so the cream ends up on the counter.

"Will, you're shaking --"

"Filthy lying faggot --"

Each word a fist in the stomach.

"Shut the fuck up!"

It's tremendously satisfying, shouting and throwing the plate at Frank. The plate shatters against a cabinet, where his head was a second ago.

Hannibal looks at me like I'm completely deranged, but at least Frank's gone. For now.

"Will?"

But Hannibal is warm and _real,_ as I slide my hands around him, up his back. As I press against him. His bewildered expression deepens to astonishment when I kiss him.

I've missed this. The heat of him. The nearness and familiarity of him. We taste like each other, like dinner, and I want to taste and feel anything that is not my panic, the sense of dread always hovering over me. To have anything else in my head.  

Hannibal makes a small noise as I open his lip with my teeth and suck, his blood copper bright.

He pulls away and he's beautiful and close, so close.

"Fuck me," I whisper in his ear. "Fuck me, please."

Hannibal looks at me like I'm -- distasteful. And I am. Oh, I am.

"I'm disappointed in you, Will."

I shove him.

"Why? Because I'm as -- degenerate -- as you remember --"

I hit him in the face, not hard enough to bloody him, but enough. I need him to hit me back, to hurt me. _Anything._

He pins me, face down, against the kitchen counter.

"Fuck. Me," I snarl and kick him.  

"Will --" Hannibal says.

Frank is here.

"Maybe we should take turns," he says.

His hands pinning me now.

"Stop, please stop --"

But Frank keeps pulling my boxer-briefs down and the whole word becomes black and I can't breathe.

Hannibal cradles me. My pants are on. The kitchen floor is cool beneath us.  

"Breathe for me, Will. Three deep breaths."

 One.

Hannibal's hand against my chest, steadying.   

Two.

His long, lovely fingers.  

Three.

He strokes soothing circles over my heart.

Exhale long and low, dragging the last dregs of the dark with it.

"Very good, Will."

His upside down face is weathered, exhausted. The cut I made on his lip still oozes.

"What got into you, Will?" he asks.

"I'm sorry."

Frank is right, hallucination or no. I'm -- repulsive. I can't bear to have Hannibal touching me like this. Like I' something special. Though he tries to keep me on the floor, I use the counter to hoist myself up.

"Will, you don't get lash out at me without explaining."

He sounds concerned but overly distant, so he's panicking. Great.

"I just wanted to be -- I wanted to be safe, to feel -- something. To be anchored."

"Safe from what?"

"You're going to think I'm crazy."

His mouth twitches with bemusement, but he says nothing.

"Frank," I confess, throwing my hands up. "Okay? I wanted to feel safe from him. To get him out of my head."

"Is he here now?"

". . . no."

Hannibal rises and pours a glass, two fingers of whiskey, and brings it to me.

"That probably won't help --"

"It can't hurt."

He daubs the blood from his lip, and his cheek is puffy where I struck him. 

With each swallow of whiskey I relax, but only a little.

"Why are you seeing Frank?"

"Why do you think?"

"I can't help you if you won't let me, Will."

"You'll kill him."

I roll the empty glass in my hands.

"Will, what happened?"

He waits.

If Hannibal and Time had a stare down, I'd seriously consider putting my money on Hannibal.

"Frank attacked me."

I need more air, everything is so tight here.

"Not just physically. He attacked me --" my eyes skitter across dark countertops, the floor. "He attacked me -- sexually."

Admitting that feels like coughing up shards of glass.

"I guess -- Frank forced me? He pinned me against the wall -- and -- rubbed against me until he -- finished."

I can sense Hannibal's rage, the calm gathering around him. I could always gauge his anger by how calm he was. But I've never been around him while he's _this_ calm.

 _Dead_ calm.

He's scaring the fuck out of me, so I keep babbling.  

"After I got away, I told I'd talk to him in a few days and I . . . I didn't. I just. Wanted to be done. I thought I could ignore him and he'd get the message. But he didn't leave me alone. He called a bunch of times and left messages. He actually showed up at my house. He still calls sometimes, but now he just hangs up. He's probably stalking me. And then he's in my head. He's not real, there, though. I was seeing him when -- I broke your plate. Jesus I am so sorry I hit you, I'm not any better than he is."

I'd very much like to throw up.

"Will, [I've endured far worse from you](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/96368356308/youre-pretty-heavy-into-kink-stuff-have-you-or-a), and it's never bothered me, nor would I consider it abusive."

His smile does not comfort me at all.  

"Please keep talking, Will."

"Well. I. Uh. I had a scene today -- a crime scene -- and he was there."

"Like Hobbs?"

"Like Hobbs -- but not. It was weird. I saw the scene in third person. I usually _become_ the killer. It's always first person. But today I was outside of him. He felt soclose to me _,_ in some way, yet still outside of me. And then he was -- Frank."

The counter is the only thing keeping me upright.

"I probably deserved it though."

"Why do you deserve what Frank did to you?"

"Because of . . . the way I am. Because I couldn't stop fucking around, literally."

"Will, what Frank did to you was his fault. Nothing you've ever done caused that."

"No, but being a faggy whore could have caused it."

The floor sways nauseously.

"Will, there is nothing wrong with your sexuality or your desires. You know that. I've never even heard you use those words, especially not in regards to yourself."

"Frank was jealous. [He did it that day we saw you. He was jealous because he saw us together](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/117174825633/did-hannibal-start-seeing-someone-else-after-you). And I shouldn't be surprised. I was flirting --"

"Will, even if you were, nothing you did --"

" _Goddammit_ I'm not a fucking victim!"

Silence.

"Stop looking at me like that," I hiss.

"How am I looking at you, Will?"

"Like -- your heart is breaking for me. Please stop. This is why I didn't want to tell anyone."

"He hurt you," Hannibal says. "Is it so wrong to admit that?"

Another silence.

" . . . yes. Yes it is. I'm not some fragile little teacup. I'm not, okay?"

"Will, the truth of psychological trauma is somewhere between denying horrible events and calling them out."

" _And_?" I can't keep the sarcasm out of my voice.

"And you need to stop denying, and call this out."

He turns and starts picking up the broken shards of his plate. I get down with him -- it is my fault after all -- and we collect the pieces.

"Are the panic attacks because of what happened?" he asks, carefully.

"Panic attacks? No they're just -- episodes," I mutter, shoveling shards onto the counter.

"Will," Hannibal says tiredly. "I'm a medical doctor. You had a panic attack right in front of me."

"Fine. They started after," I say. "So yes."

"Did you tell anyone?"

"No. Why? I can't report it. At best he'd be charged with a couple misdemeanors. At best. More likely they'd say it was an argument that got out of hand."

"I just meant had you seen any therapists or mental health doctors?"

"[I had an MRI](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/120373404823/bitter-would-have-me-taste-my-taste-was-me)?"

"Well that is something, at least."

"Something," I say to the shards collected on Hannibal's counter. "I've ruined everything tonight."

"No you haven't," he says. "Though this is not exactly what I anticipated."

I laugh, the pressure in my chest finally easing. 

"What _did_ you anticipate?"

"A nice meal with someone I care about."

"Huh."

Well, I can't make this night any worse.

"Since I'm telling the truth -- I shouldn't have broken up with you. I think."

I'm trying not to sound like it, but this particular truth has been lodged in my gut like a knife since the day I walked out on him.

"I wasn't thinking. I was angry. And overwhelmed. I should have calmed down and then spoken to you. I shouldn't have walked out on you like that. Not ever, but especially not when you were hurt."

I wish he could forgive me. Maybe then I could forgive myself.

He clears his throat.

"I survived," he says. "And it's done now. We just have the present and -- the future."

"Yeah."

He puts his hand in the small of my back and I don't want to recoil from his touch. That's something too, given how I can't even pleasure myself without thinking of Frank.

"This may be the wrong time to broach this, but, as you said, since we're telling the truth . . . Do you still have feelings for me, Will?"

"I love you."

The words brutally loud, like a gun fired at close quarters. 

A pause.

"What about you, Hannibal? You said you care, but do you still --"

"Yes," he says quickly. And then: "Yes. Always."

I nod, drawing nearer to him.

"It doesn't mean we should act on those feelings," he adds. "Especially not now. When you're scrambling for something to hold on to."

"Right. You're right."

"I think we should both have time to think. And you need to see a therapist of some kind. Preferably a specialist in sexual assault."

"Do you have to say those words?"

"Sexual assault?"

"Yeah."

"It's important to be honest about what happened. If I were being perfectly honest, I wouldn't use such a clinical term."

"Rape?"

I writhe just saying the word. Saying it makes it real, I guess.  

"You need time, and space, Will," Hannibal murmurs after a moment.

"Hah."

"Is that funny?"

"You are not exactly Mr. Give People Space."

"No, but I will give you the space you need."

"Short of me leaving."

"Will, if you really wanted to leave, I wouldn't have much of a choice in the matter. You already proved that by breaking up with me."

He's not wrong. He will always be attached to me somehow, but he did give me space, in his own way.

 _Can a psychopath love?_ I used to fret over that question, until it became frayed at the edges, and then it didn't even matter anymore.

But I look at him now. I see him. Hannibal. My Hannibal, in all his multitudes: doctor, healer, psychiatrist, lover, cook, artist, serial murderer; definitely a psychopath, and a raging narcissist. He swims through the world thinking himself above it, rarely allowing himself to be, well, himself.

It's a personality disorder -- psychopathology -- woven into the fabric of a person's psyche and soul so early it's an irrevocable part of them. If you tried to cut out that part you'd unravel the whole person, the very things that keep them human.

Loving Hannibal has taught me that the pathology of psychopaths is _utterly_ human. He wants control, control which was stripped from him once -- by abuse, by tragedy, by trauma, I don't know -- so he shapes a reality which allows him complete control. He thinks he wears a well tailored person suit. But he's really just a man wrapped in delusions of godhood. It makes him all the more fragile. Shatter the delusion, shatter the man.

I live inside that delusion sometimes, or between it and some form of reality. But most of all, I see the person nested inside it, naked and helpless as a baby bird.

By loving him, I've allowed him his humanity.

"I've changed you, haven't I?" I ask.

"Yes."

I wrap my arms around him, clutching him as close as I can. I wonder if he can feel me trembling with awe.

I hope he can.

"Thank you," I say.

"What for?"

"Being there for me."

"Of course."

We hold each for a long time.

"I guess I should go home," I say into his neck.

"Only if you feel safe doing so," he says, his arms tightening around me minutely.

"It's probably not a good idea for me to stay. It might be a little too -- intimate -- too early."

I trace his lapel with my fingers.

"I do have guest rooms," he says.

"Only about a _million_."

"More like a billion. But you are welcome to stay in one."

"I'll leave first thing in the morning."

"After a fortifying breakfast. But then after that I think it best that we don't have contact for a few days, at least."

"Right. Give each other time to think and all."

"Yes. And you need time for yourself. Promise me you will at least make an appointment with some kind of therapist."

"I _promise_ , okay?"

He relaxes his hold a little.

"Good. And when we've both had our time, we can come to terms."

"Yeah."

I rest against him. He said "we". And I'm not stupid enough to hope. Well, not too much.

Oh fuck it.

"Can I kiss you?"

I might choke on my own goddamn tongue.

"Can you?"

Is he actually  _teasing_ me?

"Shut up. _May_ I kiss you?"

"You may," he says and his eyes are dark and inviting.  

We're cautious here, crossing a wide chasm on a tightrope. But crossing it together. I cup the back of his head, opening my mouth. I can't stop myself from making a little noise of pleasure when the split in his lip reopens. I suck it tenderly before he breaks the kiss.

And Frank is not here. Not at all.

* * *

I rib Hannibal about the motorcycle and his new haircut while he leads me upstairs.

"Abigail says you're having a midlife crisis," I tell him as he makes sure this guest room is in order. Of course it is, but that doesn't stop him from fluffing pillows and double checking that the sheets are as clean as he prefers.

"Change can be invigorating," he smoothes the duvet. "You left some clothes here, so I'll bring those for you, in case you feel like changing."

"Thanks."

I only answer my vibrating phone because if I don't, I might start kissing him again. That's probably not a fantastic idea. Not yet, at least.

_Help. The garbage disposal is jammed or something. Molly has a night class. Don't know how to fix it. Any bright ideas?_

"Speaking of Abigail, she just texted about her garbage disposal. Would it be weird if I went and helped her?"

"Not weird," Hannibal replies. "Though I do wonder if it's a good idea, all things considered."

"I'm feeling better. And I think working with my hands might do me good. It would relax me."

And it would keep me from kissing him again. I couldn't manage sex, but kissing --

"Like your boat motors," he says.

"Yeah. It will probably only take me an hour. It's not far."

"And you still have a key to my house," Hannibal says.

"Yes," I admit after a moment.

He smiles, and it's rather knowing.

He's such a shit sometimes.

He swans out.

"Hannibal."

"Yes?"

I still want to tell him that I forgive him for lying. And I want to ask if he'll forgive me for walking out on him. For being such a prick. But I should wait.

A few more days can't hurt.  

"Nothing. Goodnight. If you're asleep when I get back."

"Goodnight, Will."


	158. And Promises

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We made promises, Doctor.
> 
> And we broke them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Originally posted here.](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/121935682378/and-promises-april-24-timestamp)

[OOC: So here is one section you've all be patiently waiting for -- the "what happened to Will?" section. This follows immediately after [the last section](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/121109232108/sweetness-after-grief).

Warnings for graphic violence and gore, homophobic and sexist language.

There are also time jumps in this.]

 

* * *

 

**And Promises**

**April 24**

**Will**

Always thought I'd meet a bloody end.

* * *

Baltimore is cold and black as I drive to Molly and Abigail's. The streets are silvered with moisture. From the darkness above, fat snowflakes fall, white as bone flakes. All the colors are diluted, and my body aches with released tension -- anxiety and terror and warmth and comfort -- all leaking away.

I want lie down and sleep, but there's just a few miles left to go. And then I will be with you, again.

Hannibal, my Hannibal.

There's only one light on in Molly's townhouse, the kitchen light, white and too bright.

"Willy's asleep," Abigail whispers as she lets me in.

Seeing her makes me feel a selfish kind of sadness. She's so young. Wearing an old t-shirt and cotton panties, the kind so well worn that the elastic is coming undone. She's so comfortable around me she doesn't bother with more clothes. And my sadness is selfish because I still feel like I've ruined her, sometimes, though I know she is not incapable, nor innocent.

Selfish, too, because I think I've lost some part of my love for her.

I'm tired. Too tired for anything but your voice, your warm, soft sheets, the sound of your footsteps gliding down the hallways.

The motor on the garbage disposal needs tinkering, and Abigail finds Molly's toolbox so I can get to work. It's pleasantly quiet, dark and deep. Abigail drinks a glass of milk and vaguely watches. She's rolling something around in that astute mind of hers.  

"So you were over at Hannibal's."

"Yeah."

I don't want to say anything else. Not when your kiss, your taste, lingers on my lips. I want to cherish that moment, lock it away inside myself. Keep it unblemished in my memory palace.

She smiles and bites her lip.

"You guys getting back together finally?"

"Finally?"  

She wrinkles her nose, but otherwise ignores my deflection.

"Please. Everyone can tell you're lovesick for each other."

"There," I say. "Turn on the disposal now, it should work."

She does, and from the floor I listen to the disposal grind and growl.  

"Thanks," she says, putting the empty glass down on the counter before straddling me. She's playful the way only someone who is truly young can be, and it surprises me more than her kiss.

She presses against me, fingers sliding beneath my shirt.

"No," I say, dizzy-sweaty, prickle creeping back up my throat. "No -- please --"

"Okay, sorry," she rolls off me. "Are you all right?"

"I'm just tired."

I want to be home, with you. I want to listen to you humming Bach. I want to lie in the dark and know you're nearby.

Rather than washing my hands in the kitchen sink, I go to the bathroom. I can hide here from her worried looks.

* * *

My cheek sloughs off. A rasp, a tug along my jaw. He hit bone, then.

Fucking hilarious.

Laughing doesn't hurt, though my flesh tears when I do. Blessed adrenaline blocking the pain, or maybe I'm just that close to passing out.

So this has to be fucking funny. If it's not, it's too terrible to bear.

* * *

[Remember our first kiss?](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/94364846593/how-did-hannibal-first-seduce-you-or-perhaps-you)

It was sloppy and wet. I might as well have licked your face. Though, you probably would have relished that.  

I was desperate for you. I wanted you so much, even then. I wouldn't have admitted it, but I wanted to open you up. I wanted to wretch your ribs apart. I wanted to crawl inside you.

I wanted to be devoured by you, utterly.

I didn't know who you were yet. I didn't see you, yet.

I still want to break you open and crawl inside you. To devour and be devoured by you. I want it more than anything. I want you to cut me open and take my insides out, piece by piece, then lick my blood off your hands. I want you to sew me back together again. Sew me back inside you, until I'm nestled right against your heart.

* * *

The bathroom light is sickly orange and Frank's reflection looks waxy in the mirror.

"Will?" Abigail whimpers.

Frank has her. His arm around her waist, his face alongside hers, his knife at her throat.

"Were you fucking her too?" he asks, shaking with rage.

This isn't real --

"Answer me!" he yells.

He thuds against a hallway table, sending Molly's pink ceramic elephant to the ground. It shatters,  _he is fucking real_  --

"Frank, please --" I turn.

"I’ll slit her throat."

He's so pale now, he's almost translucent. He should be a ghost. There are bruising smudges beneath his eyes, and he writhes. As if he is a mere bag of skin, and some creature scuttles around inside him, trying to force its way out.

This is not the man I cared for, the one with wry smiles and soft voice. That man could be forceful, but -- he was shy and gentle too. The first time I was inside him, he was shy. But it was his first time bottoming.  

"I'll show you," I said. "I'll be slow. It won't hurt."

But this is not that shy, lovely man, warm and nervous, who gasped in surprise and then, pleasure, as I moved inside of him.

This is something else.

And yet they are the same.

"Please tell me you didn't fuck her too."

His voice shudders with unshed tears. He pricks her throat, and a ribbon of blood trickles down her shoulder.

Abigail makes panicked choking noises that I know too, too well.  

The lights brighten all around me. Everything is white, and dead.

Frank told me once, about his grandmother, about his mother. He'd whispered his stories to me, and I'd cradled him close while he cried like a lost little boy. I told him it wasn't his fault.

It wasn't.

Still, I mimic his grandmother's voice back to him. I need him to let Abigail go, and come after me.

"Filthy," I spit. "You filthy little beast. You're a disgusting sissy boy, aren't you? You filthy little faggot. Nothing you ever do will be good enough, Francis."

Each word shrapnel, slashing him open, more effective than any blow. He releases Abigail and she runs, darting up the hall to Willy's room. The boy's bedroom window bangs open, and I hear the scramble of socked feet over the ledge before Frank lunges for me.

A furious rush of claws and teeth.

Frank's first swing misses, but only just.

I don't have a gun, and I am neither fast enough, nor strong enough, to match him.

I hope I'm tough enough to survive, at least.

He slams me into the bathroom mirror and shards fall everywhere.

The first stab is white, cleaving my eye.

He says he loves me. He says it over and over as he hits me. He's hysterical, he's crying. He's carving my face with mirror shards.

"I'm sorry," he says, his fingers bloody, slippery. "I'm sorry."

Blood gushes down my throat, smothering me.

"Frank!"

Molly.

"I will shoot," she says.

"I know," he says.

She does.

He doesn't fall down. A bark of pain, and a dragging noise, more glass breaking, a heavy thud.

"Fuck," Molly says, rolling me on my side. The world tilts over and the blood pours from my face and I can breathe, but I'd rather be drowning because it was better than the pain.

Footfalls.

"I called 911 --" Abigail stops.

"He's not dead," Molly says in a voice that is not at all optimistic.  

Ha. Funny.

"Will," Abigail says, squeezing my hand. Her fingers are sticky with my blood.

"Will, I called Hannibal. He's coming."

* * *

Hannibal. My Hannibal.

"Will, can you hear me? Squeeze my hand if you can."

Your hand is so big, too big to grasp.  

You could cradle my whole body in your hand.  

Sirens, sirens. Blue and red, blue and red. I'm floating out of the bathroom into the black night and sirens are close, closer, and there are people all around me, jostling, pressing.

"Jesus Christ, does he even have a face left," a voice I don't know says.

"Just keep him on his side, so he doesn't drown --" another voice says.

Rolled into a white and metal space, your hand.

"Unless you're family, you can't ride in the ambulance --"

"Legally, I'm his next of kin." Your voice is sharp and hard as one of your knives.

The sirens are still loud, but there's also jittering and bumping, people muttering and sticking things in and on me.  

Your hand, holding me.

We made promises, that first morning we kissed, and had sex. We lay disheveled on your kitchen floor, laughing from exhilaration and relief.

We had breakfast and then I straddled you while you sat in your chair. I loved watching your face as I sank down onto you for the first time, as we crawled into each other's bodies for the second time.

Afterwards, we talked about what we wanted. Were we friends? Lovers?

And then a few months, we would say: [Even Steven. Equalled and together](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/94364846593/how-did-hannibal-first-seduce-you-or-perhaps-you).

That was our agreement. We made promises, Doctor.

And we broke them. Probably every single one, at some point or another.

"He's going into shock --"

That morning in the kitchen is so near now, I can feel the heat of our bodies, you moving inside me. All the colors are coming back to me, all the sounds and smells and tastes. Not just of that morning, but every morning. Every waking and sleeping moment, everything, the entire world, the universe herself, pressing down on me, an enormous consuming tidal wave.

"Will?" Your voice a clanging gong of panic.

Hannibal -- I feel  _everything_ even as I sink, as I begin to dissolve -- my body first, and then my mind and my soul. My individuality is leaving, any  _I_  part of me unraveling; I'll be everything and I'll be nothing.

Your hand holds me and always will, just as it will not hold me, and never will again. They are all the same.

But spidery, electrical fingers find me. They lift me, heart first. I am  _I_  again. The world doesn't press in on me. I'm an unfortunate heap of flesh and blood and bone and there are humming paddles stuck to my chest, and I'm coughing on my own face. Back on my side.

Your hand, where is your hand. I reach for you and you catch me. I squeeze your hand hard, harder, even though it hurts.

I'm still here.

And we've new promises to make.


	159. this beast, so ravenous for love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This beast will take out your lovely, beating heart, and devour it in front of you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Originally posted here.](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/122016321473/this-beast-so-ravenous-for-love)

[OOC: So here is one bit I didn't anticipate writing, but needed to be written. [Follows after the last segment. ](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/121935682378/and-promises-april-24-timestamp)

Warnings: Holy child abuse, Batman, both physical and emotional. :/ Homophobic, sexist, racist, and ableist language. Internalized homophobia. Self-harm. Mentions of rape. Violence and descriptions of gore.

This is [a prose-poem](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Prose_poetry), so it's not the usual flavor of fanfiction or fiction, but I hope it's still understandable. It made sense for the character.    

While William Blake's poetry features heavily into the original  _Red Dragon_ canon, I turned instead to [Jack Spicer's  _Imaginary Elegies III_](https://books.google.com/books?id=MxSkbKqCUrkC&pg=PA142&lpg=PA142&dq=imaginary+elegies+iii&source=bl&ots=Rr-eEnb6XC&sig=oiUh_XWDZX-1BC0A6IWEf6bv5XM&hl=en&sa=X&ved=0CCsQ6AEwAmoVChMIkNnBsb-IxgIVil6SCh2uTgAd#v=onepage&q=imaginary%20elegies%20iii&f=false), "For Joe", and "A Book of Music". He worked better.

If you want to really feel crushed by sads, [listen to this while you read](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ckTZud3ftUk)! This was my personal soundtrack while writing.]

 

* * *

 

**this beast, so ravenous for love**

**April 27**  
**  
Frank  
**  
She shoots to kill.  
  
So it's your lucky damn day, Doctor.  
  
* * *  
  
Mom always said I was nothing.  
I proved her right.  
  
She left me home, alone, when I was three. I cut my head open on the base of the fireplace. It was old stone with sharp edges. She bought the house because it looked nice, but it was a trap for a kid like me. Full of uncovered sockets and things to cut myself on.  
I tripped and fell. Blood everywhere.  
  
You know what she said to me?  
She said:  _stop crying._  
_Look what you've done._  
_You've got blood all over the carpet._  
  
She should have taken me to get stitches  
but she didn't.  
She had a hair appointment and I'd made her late.  
So she taped some gauze to my forehead.  
  
You can still see the scar.  
  
Will kissed it.  
He said it was beautiful.  
  
* * *  
  
It's not really a surprise that when Mom had enough enough of me, that she gave me to Grandma.  
  
Grandma called me a  _disgusting beast,_ a  _filthy little creature,_ at least once a week.  
  
And I was those things. I am.  
  
I crawled around the rooms of Grandma's big old house  
a rat in a maze, rat in a maze,  
a blind little wingless bat.  
I wanted to be anything but her grandson.  
Some days I looked out the attic window, at her garden. I daydreamed walking out the window and letting the earth catch me.  
My broken wingless body.  
  
God is gone.  
I knew that when I was eight. I pressed my palms together in church. I was going to be good for Grandma so she wouldn't leave me like Mom had. I wore my Sunday best. I had kept it clean of any hair or dust.  
But then she looked at me. We were singing "Onward Christian Soldiers".  
She looked at me.  
I was a mere ant. Something she could crush under her polished, flat-soled heels  
(even small heels were immodest in church and she clicked her tongue at the "sluts" and "whores" who wore heels;  
_Don't marry a whore, Francis)._  
  
She looked at me and I was nothing.  
Nothing I ever did would be  _good enough_ for that bitch.  
So I started crying, right in the middle of church.  
I got snot all over my Sunday suit.  
It doesn't matter why I did it.  
(I was afraid, so afraid.  
I was alone every night.  
It doesn't matter.  
It doesn't matter,  
it DOES NOT matter.)  
  
She dragged me home by my arm.  
_Grandma you're hurting me!_  
_Stop crying, you little pansy._  
_STOP CRYING._  
Whomp, whomp, whomp!  
Grandpa's thick old belt, right across my rump.  
Whomp, whomp, whomp!  
_Shut up you little beast._  
Whomp  
_Whomp_  
WHOMP  
The blows stopped but I felt their sting for days.  
  
I had a pet mouse once.  
His nest was a little hole in the wall of my bedroom.  
I snuck him pieces of food from lunch and dinner.  
(I thought I was being so clever, folding food into my napkin and then my pocket.)  
The mouse's name was Wilbur.  
I loved that mouse. His quiet little eyes. His soft fuzzy ears. His tail like silk. He even let me pet him sometimes.  
But Grandma found him.  
  
She said I was dirty, keeping vermin in my room.  
_It's a filthy wild animal Francis._  
_No Grandma, he's my pet. His name is Wilbur._  
_Kill it. Step on it._  
_No Grandma! No! Why! Why!_  
_Well, you won't get any food until you kill it._  
  
Three days.  
I was so hungry.  
_I'm sorry, Wilbur._  
  
He wasn't dead though. He was bent all wrong, and squeaked in pain.  
  
_Can't even do that right,_ Grandma said, and finished what I couldn't.  
  
God is gone, Doctor.  
God is gone.  
  
* * *  
  
love was being told you were a dirty beast  
love was hitting and spanking  
love was being ignored  
love was being controlled  
  
So when I fell in love for the first time  
you have to understand, you have to understand --  
of course I hit him and drew blood  
  
that's what love  _was._  
  
Kissing?  
  
I tried that out with girls sometimes, and their lips were all rubbery and cold.  
  
My first love taught me how to kiss. It was beneath the elm trees in Grandma's gardens, behind the wild lavender. Those lavender stalks were so tall, they were a wall between me and the house, me and Grandma's eyes.  
_  
She will never see the way this boy looks at me_ , I thought. As if I was sacred and special, like an artifact in a museum.  
_  
She will never see how we he holds my hand._ He put his lips to my naked, open palm.  
_  
She will never see how he kisses me._ His lips were the kindest thing I'd ever felt.  
  
Of course she knew though.  
  
She speckled me blue and purple and black with bruises.  
_No Grandson of mine is going to be a faggot._  
_Pull down your pants._  
_PULL IT OUT._  
_Stretch it for me._  
_STRETCH IT._  
_I will cut it off, Francis._  
_If you want to be a little faggot_  
_a filthy homo_  
_a sissy_  
_then I will cut it off_  
_so help me God._  
  
So of course the next time I saw him, I hit the boy I loved  
hard enough to draw blood.  
  
That's what love was.  
  
I couldn't be a faggot, anyways, now could I?  
  
* * *  
  
It's you're lucky day, Doctor.  
But you already knew that.  
You bide your time like God.  
  
* * *  
  
The military seemed like a good place.  
  
They fixed my cleft palate for free. (Mom had ignored it, and Grandma said I had it because I was bad; it was a punishment, so it shouldn't be fixed.)   
  
In the military, I could get away from Grandma once and for all. And they  would burn off all the dross in me, all the weakness. My queerness, my sissiness.  
  
I never expected to find love there.  
  
People didn't bitch about deployment (not yet). Afghanistan. Hell yeah, we're gonna kill us some fucking ragheads. Fucking show those camel jockeys they can't fucking fuck with America.  
  
But all there really was were days and days of do-nothing. Read books, oil my rifle, and tell the fresh meat to go lick out the latrine again. The nights were so deep and dark, and the stars shone like fat nails.  
  
And then there was love.  
  
Her laugh was raucous and bone shaking, but warm as summer. A woman's laugh, here in these godforsaken foothills? A woman who could out-swear every one of our commanders until they burned red-faced as lobsters? A woman who swaggered like she was belonged in a Western?  
  
Molly. Molly Foster.  
  
She saved me, you know. She saved me. At least for a little while.  
  
She didn't believe my tough guy façade. She punched me in the arm and called me "D". She played basketball with me and I let her win. She chewed me out for it, but I let her win because I loved her.  
  
I never wanted her. I just wanted to be her friend, forever.  
  
She fell in love with William. He was from another unit. At first I was scared she'd stop being my friend, but she introduced us one night over cards, and then there were two people for me to love, and be loved by. Even when I was angry and I yelled at them. Even when I punched walls and threatened to break people's necks. Even when I cried because I was nothing but a weak little pussy, and I couldn't help it, I couldn't help looking at men  _that way_ ,just like Grandma had said. A fucking faggot.  
  
Molly and William loved  _me._  
  
Even after I got drunk that one night, when we were all on leave, and told them some things about Mom, and Grandma.  
_  
Jesus, D, that's fucked up,_ Molly said, and held me like it was the end of the world and she would never let go.  
  
Molly and William married between tours, and she had Willy. I was Uncle Frank, and everything was going to be all right.  
  
But then there was Iraq. Desert sun burning up every single drop of moisture as soon as it appeared. Too hot to even sweat. Fucking Iraq. Everyone was wondering what we were doing there, and everyone tired of killing ragheads because they weren't ragheads anymore, they were just people who were tired of the same shit we were.  
  
Molly and William were apart, one stateside and one overseas, then trading places. Back and forth, back and forth. Whenever she was on tour, she just said she was getting home to her son, and she'd blow the shit out of anyone who got in her way.  
  
That's why she manned the gun on the car. Technically she was a cook. But everyone in her unit knew if some yahoo Iraqi kid with a gun started spraying bullets, Molly wouldn't hesitate to drop him. The kid could be sixteen, the kid could be ten, she did not give a shit. She was getting home to Willy.  
  
She shot to kill.  
  
She was home, and I was overseas with William, when he died.  
  
I can't do anything right. Not even cover my best friend's husband.  
  
It was fast at least. Bullet right in the throat. He didn't spend days or even minutes suffering.  
  
I brought his body home to her.  
_  
It's my fault Molly. It's my fault._  
_Jesus, D, shut the fuck up. It's no-one's fault._  
  
And we held each other like we would never let go.  
  
Medical discharge for the both of us. Molly because her hips were fucked up, me because I kept hearing whispers in the night.  
  
(A dry snake slither. The flap of wings. Hissing in the dark.)  
  
Molly said I just had  _PTSD or some shit._  
_Don't worry D,_ she said.  _We'll get you home. You'll be right as rain._  
  
(He was only a hatchling then, but he wanted out.)  
  
* * *  
  
When I got home for good, there were too many choices.  
The VA doctors didn't listen. They just wrote prescriptions, stuffed me with pills. The pills made me feel like dull and stupid, so I stopped taking them. (I didn't need help feeling stupid, not with Grandma's voice in my head.)  
The lines at the VA were so long I never saw a therapist.  
The lines at the grocery store were long too. Too many choices. Walls and walls of cereal. Rows of canned food. Bags upon bags of rice and beans. A whole aisle of milk. Fresh fruit and vegetables that went on and on.  
How was I supposed to choose from all this shit? When I was on base, I went to the commissary, and I had what they had. When I was in the field we had sand in every crack and the same old socks from six months ago. That was that. You couldn't bitch about it because there was nothing to bitch about.  
  
But back home everyone bitched about everything. They bitched about having the wrong yogurt, for Christ's sake. It's not like there were fifty other varieties.  
  
_At least we have choices in booze,_ Molly said as we shambled through the liquor store.  
When the clerk saw our military ID's, she said:  _Thank you for your service_ , and gave us a discount.  
Molly and I laughed about that until our stomachs ached.  
  
We still do.  
  
Did.  
  
* * *  
  
Because the military paid for college, I went.   
Figured it was better than sitting around on my ass all day,  
wishing the shadowy whispers in my head would go away.

Library school gave me some hope.  
I liked children's literature.  
It made me feel good:  
looking at the pictures, the simple texts and stories,  
everything distilled down to soft colors and words.  
Nothing like my childhood.  
I wanted to give children something I never had.  
I wanted to relive, vicariously, what I never had.  
  
I liked poetry too. I read a lot when I was tour because I had nothing better to do. Grandma made me think I was too stupid to understand poetry. I was in the middle of  _Songs of Innocence and Experience_ when it occurred to me that she was wrong. I  _did_ understand it.  
  
And if she was wrong about one thing, maybe she was wrong about other things. Maybe she was wrong about  _me_.   
  
So I loved poetry. I loved [Romantic poetry](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Romantic_poetry) especially, and then modern stuff. Keats and Blake and Byron and Shelley all whispered to me. Slithering, beautiful words. And then there were guys like Jack Spicer and Essex Hemphill. I never thought there was faggot poetry, I guess.  
  
They talked about love and war and death.  
_  
[Men ought to love men](https://books.google.com/books?id=G0mrBgAAQBAJ&pg=PA64&lpg=PA64&dq=for+joe+jack+spicer&source=bl&ots=mLlrFe-oZd&sig=MU-2Mh8I8tURXB8MAluBGiX_mXo&hl=en&sa=X&ved=0CGEQ6AEwDGoVChMI0rXI0cCIxgIVy2ytCh2QBgD9#v=onepage&q=for%20joe%20jack%20spicer&f=false)_  
_[(and do)](https://books.google.com/books?id=G0mrBgAAQBAJ&pg=PA64&lpg=PA64&dq=for+joe+jack+spicer&source=bl&ots=mLlrFe-oZd&sig=MU-2Mh8I8tURXB8MAluBGiX_mXo&hl=en&sa=X&ved=0CGEQ6AEwDGoVChMI0rXI0cCIxgIVy2ytCh2QBgD9#v=onepage&q=for%20joe%20jack%20spicer&f=false)_  
_  
[I should have loved him forever](http://www.jstor.org/stable/2931050?seq=1#page_scan_tab_contents)_  
_[or put a bullet in his muthafuckin' head.](http://www.jstor.org/stable/2931050?seq=1#page_scan_tab_contents)_  
  
* * *  
  
Oh the Marlow's.  
They were really just a test run.  
  
I was at a different library, helping with a display  
(apparently I am good at those  
_was_ good).  
And I saw Mrs. Marlow, priggish bitch, scolding her niece.  
_Don't be stupid,_ Mrs. Marlow told the girl.  
Girl was maybe ten.  
  
I don't know much, Doctor, but I do know the difference between a happy, loved child and a frightened, hurting child.  
  
By then, the serpentine whispers had become a voice, and a presence in my head. Sometimes my body. At night, I felt him moving around beneath my skin. I stripped naked and sat in the moonlight, so he could come out. The ends of my fingers snapped and bled, growing claws. The bones of my face shifted for his curléd horns and his long, sharp teeth. The skin of my pack peeled back so he could unfurl his wings.  
  
I called him the Dragon, after the [William Blake paintings](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Great_Red_Dragon_Paintings). The Dragon felt like the dragon those paintings: a vast, feral force of nature, which made others tremble with fear and awe.  
  
It was the Dragon's idea to get the Marlow's address out of the library system. I didn't really like it, but I knew that no-one else would do anything. Just like nothing had been done for me.  
  
The Dragon told me I should stake out the Marlow's house, and tap their phone lines.  
  
It was easy.  
  
And then when the time was right, I let the Dragon loose. He roared through the Marlow's front door. He shot her husband and she watched him die. Then he shot Mrs. Marlow and sat on the floor, lapping her blood while she died.  
  
When he saw his reflection in the blood, he was me.  
  
* * *  
  
I hope the niece will be okay.  
  
* * *  
  
The Jacobis and the Leeds . . .  
  
Oh, the Leeds haven't been found yet?  
  
Well.  
  
* * *  
  
They were hurting their children. I could see it in the way the kids cowered, expecting a cutting word, or a blow. The way they lit up like it was Christmas when I gave them compliments  
_(You're so smart to know that word._  
_You are such a good reader._  
_Your drawing is great, can you tell me about it?)._  
  
The way they shrank when their parents were around.  
Nothing.  
They felt like nothing.  
  
And their parents.  
Well, they wore their Sunday best, didn't they?  
Daddy and his country club membership.  
Mommy on the PTA committee.  
All the kids shuffled from one activity to the next so Mommy and Daddy won't be inconvienced and have to spend time with them, won't have to take care of them more than necessary. To the outside world, the kids would be little prodigies. But in the house, they learned the language of love: of hurting, of neglect, and of control.  
  
And then their own kids would someday learn the same. And on and on and on.  
  
It's a fairy tale: they, in their perfect houses. They, with the smiles in their family pictures which insist:  _everything is normal here._  
_  
We do not hurt our children.  
  
_ Well, they don't anymore.  
  
* * *  
  
The Dragon and I -- we could still smell the Leeds' blood when we drove to Molly's.  
  
Was it just three nights ago?  
It seems like a lifetime ago.  
I'm sure it feels like that for you.  
  
Is he alive? Did he make it?  
  
You don't have to tell. I know I don't deserve an answer.  
  
I did do that. I did rape him. I did hurt him. The Dragon was in me, but we -- I -- still did that.  
  
I know.  
  
Love is blood. Love is red and white anger beating against the backs of my eyes. Love is wanting control when I see the man I love --  _loved_ \-- talking to the man  _he_ loves.  
  
I'm many things, Doctor, but I am not blind.  
[  
The day I saw you two together in the street, I knew.](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/117174825633/did-hannibal-start-seeing-someone-else-after-you) We both knew -- the Dragon and I.  
  
Will did not love me. He would never love me. Not the way I already loved him.     
  
His heart is radiant.  
He's a true lover.  
  
I don't just mean he's good in bed, either  
(I hope that's not too crass).  
  
I can't complain about that of course.  
He was my first and last real boyfriend.  
I had my girlfriends, then awkward, furtive fumbles with other men  
(why did it take me so, so long?).  
  
But Will touched me like I was fine china. Like he could keep all my jagged pieces from coming apart. He could put me back together.  
  
I let him have me. Even with what experience I did have with other men, I'd never allowed  _that_ before  
(another man --  _inside_  me?).  
  
It was strange and wondrous.  
He was very gentle.  
Tender.  
Slow.  
I'm glad I had that with him.  
  
Don't let it make you uncomfortable, Doctor.  
He would never love me like he loves you.  
  
He is a lover.  
His capacity for love, well . . .  
  
. . . [all that's best of dark and bright](http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/173100) meet in the way he looks at you  
the way he  _sees_  you  
  
he sees the best in both darkness and light, and he sees them both together  
he could never separate the two neatly, and that's why he's so deliciously fucked up, isn't it?  
  
Well.  
  
He never saw me. Not all of me, at least. Some of me. What parts of me I allowed him. He saw glimpses of the Dragon, but never really knew him.  
  
That, and Will was always somewhere else when he was with me.  
He was with you.  
  
You must know:  
his radiant heart  
that heart of heart of hearts  
would never beat for me.  
  
It beats violently for  _you_ , Doctor.  
  
When I saw you two together, I was so angry it roused the Dragon. He said I should take what I wanted. Love is control. If I forced Will, I could keep him. I could make him what I wanted him to be. I could make him love me.  
  
It was wrong. I told the Dragon it was wrong. But we -- I -- still did it.  
  
* * *  
  
I wanted to explain to Will. I wanted to ask his forgiveness. I couldn't leave him alone. The Dragon said -- the Dragon said.  
  
Well. It doesn't matter what he said. I just kept bothering Will. I just couldn't stop. I couldn't let him go.  
  
[But when he didn't call me back, when he threw me out of his house](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/120373404823/bitter-would-have-me-taste-my-taste-was-me) -- the Dragon said:  _I told you so. I told you he didn't love you. Who could love you?_  
  
I couldn't be loved. Mom had known that, Grandma had known that, Will knew that. Since I couldn't be loved, I may as well be feared. I may as well hurt others, and have control.  
  
I let the Dragon have what he wanted. I let him come out.  
  
He tore out of my skin -- see? See? These cuts on my back? I made those. I cut myself open with my army knife so he could get out.  
  
I probably should have gotten stitches, but then it would hurt more when he came out.   
  
* * *  
  
When I let the Dragon loose on the Jacobis, it was because we wanted to punish them, and [to show the world the truth about them](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/120625595678/in-the-afterbirth).  
  
I didn't want to kill the children. But the Dragon said they would grow up to be like me, like us.  
  
He said if I didn't, he would finish what I couldn't.  
  
I couldn't let him do that. So I killed them. I made it quick, and painless.   
  
It would have been too cruel a fate for those children to grow up like me, Doctor.   
  
We did the same with the Leeds'. And would have done, to many others, but. Now that's over.  
  
Thank God.  
  
* * *  
  
The Leeds' blood, we could taste it when we drove up to Molly's that night. We'd cleaned up, of course, not a drop on us, but you can always taste blood long after you're done.  
  
I wanted to be in my human skin again. Whenever we kill, the Dragon and I are the same. I'm great and winged, beautiful, and strong. But love cannot penetrate the Dragon's steely scales. For that, I need my human skin. So I went to Molly's because she was one person, at least, who would make me feel loved. Who thought I was worth loving.    
  
But she wasn't home. _Will_ was there, though. I saw his car. I thought:  _I can talk to him. Maybe I can get him to forgive me._  
  
Not that I deserve ( _deserved_ ) it.  
  
The Dragon laughed at me, and my hope. And he was right.  
  
I went in and that Hobbs girl was straddling Will. She was all over him.  
  
What fucking sluts, the pair of them. I couldn't have him, but  _she_ could? Some idiot girl who had barely lived, barely suffered at all? What had she done to earn that love?  
  
WHAT HAD SHE DONE.  
  
I was the one who grabbed the girl. Not the Dragon. But when Will begged for her life --  _begged_ \-- it only incensed me. So much so that I had to be the Dragon. I couldn't be human and survive the inferno of wraith inside me. But the Dragon, he had survived the desert. He had survived my Grandma. He had survived my Mom. He has always been staggering along in my shadow.  
_  
Filthy little beast._  
  
But  _this_  beast has eyes.  
This beast has horns and wings.   
This beast has claws and teeth.   
This beast swills blood and snaps bones.  
  
This beast tells the truth of what was done to him, and to others like him.  
  
This beast will take out your lovely, beating heart, and devour it in front of you.  
  
This beast, so ravenous for love.  
  
* * *  
  
When I still thought Will would love me, I was stupid enough to tell him. Even though the Dragon said I shouldn't, I still told Will about Mom and Grandma. So Will knew how to hurt  _me_  that night, when I caught him with that girl.  
  
He begged for her.  
And then something went dead inside him.     
  
He said:  _filthy._  
_Filthy little beast._  
_Disgusting sissy boy._  
_Filthy faggot._  
_Nothing you ever do will be good enough, Francis._  
_Nothing.  
  
_ He didn't have to beg for her then. His words parted my scales, and speared their way into my soft belly, the parts of me which could still feel love. I became something else tin those moments. Part man, part Dragon. A chimera creature, I guess. But both parts of me only saw Will.   
  
we stabbed him in the eye because he has (had) beautiful eyes  
we sliced up his beautiful, intoxicating face  
we wanted to c ut hi m  al l   u p  
then no-one else would ever be lured by him, by his siren-song beauty  
  
when we were done, the flesh dropped from his face like melted candle-wax  
  
It was -- not right. Not at all.  
Not like the Marlows, the Jacobis, the Leeds.  
There was no retribution, no truth telling.  
  
Just fear  
and anger.  
  
And love.  
  
* * *  
  
She shoots to kill, Doctor.  
  
When Molly found us, she told me she'd shoot me.  
The Dragon hissed and spat that I should kill her.  
But  _I_  wanted her to shoot us. I wanted her to kill me.  
She cried because she loves  _me_.  _Me._  
I cried because _I_  love her.  
It would have been a good death.  
  
But she didn't kill me.  
  
Love, eh?  
  
She shot me in the leg. She didn't want me dead. Just a warning graze, enough to scare me off. Send me stumbling through her patio door, falling off her back deck, flightless and wingless. Then limping and running.  
  
Just a man. Not a Dragon. Just me.  
  
I thought I'd disappear. Try to become someone else. Change my name.  
  
But now you've found me and I don't have to worry about what happens next.  
  
Are you disappointed you didn't find the Dragon?  
Just a blind, wingless little bat.  
A rat.  
An ant.  
No thing.  
  
  
Me.  
  
* * *  
  
I'm not going to beg for my life.  
I won't even beg that you do it swiftly, with mercy.  
  
But please, whatever you do to me, Doctor Lecter:  
  
Love Will.  
Love him with all you have  
because I couldn't  
  
(or: I loved him too well  
_  
[But, you will say, we loved,](http://www.poets.org/poetsorg/poem/book-music)_  
_[And some parts of us loved](http://www.poets.org/poetsorg/poem/book-music)_  
_[And the rest of us will remain](http://www.poets.org/poetsorg/poem/book-music)_


	160. New Lands for the Living

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's like I never left that kitchen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Originally posted here.](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/123902890368/new-lands-for-the-living)

[OOC: Follows after the last chapter.

No major warnings in this one, except for some passing descriptions of violence, gore, and a few mentions of medical procedures.

Title from [this song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cHMx5xbejz8), because I’ve never been great with titles.]

 

* * *

 

**New Lands for the Living**

**April 24**

**Abigail**

It won't tug. It won't even rip. It will be quick and clean. There'll be a dull burn where the blade slides through. But not any pain. There'll be a hot oily gush, like flopping into a bath tub. It's bath-time, with Dad. I'm a little girl again. The water is just a little too warm, and it's red, and Dad is dead. There are nine holes in him, and they're oozing blood over. There's blood all over. The air's too thin.

Dad?

Dad doesn't wear glasses, and this man's hands are too unsteady. He looks like he's going to piss himself.

It's like I never left that kitchen.

Will looks like he's going to piss himself now, and the metal of Frank's knife is cold and sharp. He  _stinks._ I know that smell: blood and fear. I am going to fucking die here.

How dareI survive just so I can end up here with a knife at my throat again.

Will was so useless when he first found me, his hands slipping and sliding in my blood. Hannibal was the one who saved me, really. So I am fucking fucked, because Hannibal is not here, he's a million miles away and Will --

He's not Will now. He looks like Will, but with his soul sucked out. His eyes are dead. He smiles, and it's so revolting that I wish he'd never touched me, never kissed me, never been inside me --

"Filthy little beast," he says. "Disgusting sissy boy. Filthy faggot. Nothing you ever do will be good enough, Francis."

The wall slams into me and there's red everywhere. The red goes away while I heave for air. The cut on my throat is wet with blood, but it's just a little nick, it's nothing --

Will -- the Will I know and love -- he's saying  _run, run._ He's screaming. Frank is on him.  

_Run._

The narrow hallway hurtles around me. I can hear Will as I yank Willy out of bed and throw the bedroom window open. I can hear him as our feet slip and slide down the gutter and into these scratchy, prickly bushes outside.

I thought hearing those girls cry and whimper would be the worst thing I ever heard.

The screen on Willy's phone is too slick, slippery, and it takes  _forever_ for the call to connect, to tell the stupid woman on the other end to  _get here now, he is hurting him, can't you hear him screaming?_

Keep it together, Abigail,  _keep it together_. Get Willy away, get away, get some place -- I don't know where --  _get out_ ,  _stay the fuck alive._

Will has stopped screaming.

That's worse.

I don't know if I dialed the right number, my hands shaking so badly, until I hear Hannibal's voice on the other end.

At least Frank will be as good as dead.

Keep it together, Abigail.

* * *

Jesus Christ.

Jesus Christ.

_Jesus Christ._

I can't do this. I can't look at Will like this. His face is all mangled -- I can't even tell if he's human. I can't hold his hand. I can't do this. I can't.

Hannibal's coming. Hannibal's coming. Don't fucking cry, Abigail, keep it together. There's blood everywhere and why,  _why_ and  _how fucking dare you_ is this some goddamn sick joke? That I get to sit here and watch this?

Hannibal crowds me and there's no room for me here, no need for me. Thank fuck.

The curb outside is cold and solid. Like a knife against my throat.

Guess I'm still alive.  

The cut bleeds if I pick at the scab. So I guess it's not a bad cut. The ambulance and the cops finally show up. An EMT looks at my throat.

It won't stop bleeding, I say.

It's just a scratch, the EMT says.

It won't stop, though. They don't understand.

It never stops. It never  _ends._

This time though I'm not the one going out on a gurney and into the ambulance. But Hannibal is still the one riding along.

This time, I'm sticky with blood, sitting here because I don't know what else to do.  

"Hey, kiddo."

Even though Molly's shaking, and her voice is hoarse, she wraps me in a blanket and holds me.

The bandage on my neck crinkles when I touch it.

 

**April 28**

It won't stop. The cut opens without warning. When we collect some things from the townhouse before driving off to Reba's, where we'll stay for a few days. When Reba hugs me and asks if I am okay. When I'm brushing my teeth. When I lay down in the dark of Reba's study. I don't sleep because I know the wound's going to open up, and I will die gasping.

It's been four days and I'm still waiting for it to stop. When I ate dinner last night, I felt the skin parting and the blood gushing out of me. I had to leave and lock myself in the study. I was bleeding all over, I was fucking dying,  _and didn't anyone see that_?

The sheets are slippery now. It's three fucking thirty and my throat is open and I'm bleeding all over.

I wish it was a relief to know it's really just sweat.

Get it together, Abigail. Get up. Go the bathroom and get a spare towel -- the last one. At least I can wrap myself in it. Maybe I can slug it out with the rest of the night for some sleep.  

But the walls of Reba's study lighten before that happens. Willy's thump-thump-thumping footsteps rattle the doors. For once I don't want to strangle him for not being quieter. It feels, well,  _normal_. He's just some awkward kid who thuds into everything, who likes Harry Potter, and is going to try and sneak gummy bears into his cereal for the millionth time.

And Molly will catch him, like she always does.

"Willy, we have this conversation  _every_ morning. And where the hell did you get gummy bears --"

"But Mom --"

"Come on, Willy, just give me a break, okay? It's been a rough few days."

Her voice cracks.

"I know, Mom. I'm sorry."

This is the part where he stands on tiptoes, and she leans down so he can kiss her on the cheek.

This is the part where I try not to feel jealous of a nine-year-old kid, because he still has his mom and she loves him.

I hear Reba's voice in the kitchen now. The shuffle of footsteps and the noise of people talking. It's almost like we're not refugees from our own home. The bathroom isn't taped off, and the townhouse isn't a crime scene. Will was never attacked. There aren't puddles of his blood everywhere. My throat is fine.

I'm alive. Will is alive, though he'll probably spend the rest of his blind in one eye, and looking about as good as a side of minced beef. But I guess being alive is not  _nothing_. So I might as well drag my ass out of bed.

The bathroom is ugly orange. I keep seeing Frank in the mirror, and Will's terrified face, so how about  _nope_. We're taking this party to the kitchen, emptied because Willy is off to school, and Reba went to work. I hear Molly in the guestroom down the hall.

She was sobbing yesterday morning, after Willy and Reba left. She kept saying: "God fucking  _damn_ you Frank,  _fuck_ you,  _fuck you_!" When she stopped yelling she kept on crying, between whispering: "I love you, you asshole," and "how  _could_ you?"

Willy won't stop asking what was wrong with Uncle Frank. Is he okay? Why did he attack Will? Would the police shoot him if they found him? Did Uncle Frank really kill all those people, like Tattle Crime said? Is Uncle Frank a bad person?

Molly just says: "I don't know, baby."

But now she's humming. It sounds like a Neil Young song, and the only reason I know that is because Will likes his music.

_[Don't let it bring you down, it's only castles burning.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1jzhLtt_pGQ) _

Right, cool. Thanks, Neil.

Reba's toothpaste kind of sucks. It's some weird grainy gel, but beggars can't be choosers and all. At least I have my own toothbrush. Molly forgot hers.

"Hey kiddo," Molly says. Her face is puffy because she's been crying again. "Why are you brushing your teeth in the kitchen?"

"I don't like bathroom mirrors," I say around the toothbrush.

"Yeah."

She puts some toothbrush on her finger and joins me.

"I have some more exciting interviews today with the FBI," she says. "With some Jack Crawford guy."

"Oh yeah. He's Will's boss. He interviewed me about -- my Dad. He's kind of a jerk."

"Duly noted," Molly spits after me.

"I'm going to the hospital."

"There's nothing for you to do there."

"I know."

What else am I supposed to do? I'm going to dive bomb my finals this semester. I can't focus on math or sociology without feeling the tear in my neck.  

Besides, Will and Hannibal sat by my bed in the hospital. Not that I remember. But they told me they did. They weren't there when I woke up, but they were there, I guess.

"I just want to check up on him, you know. Make sure he's doing okay."

Molly isn't convinced but she doesn't say so. She lets people make their own dumb choices and that's kind of why I like her.

"You know," she says, while I comb my hair and she starts putting on make-up. "You know what those FBI people said the other day? They said Frank was maybe schizophrenic. Or multiple personality disorder. And I  _laughed_. They asked me why that was funny. It was funny because that was the  _best_ news I've heard about Frank since this whole thing started. Oh, he's just  _crazy._ That's so much better than walking in on him taking a guy's face off, and so much better than finding out he killed two whole families. Being crazy is a riot after that."

She's trembling so badly I'm worried she's going to poke her eye with her mascara wand.  

The wound in Will's stabbed eye had gaped at me, all puckered and strange. It wasn't like an eye at all.

"Well," I say. "It's all fun and games until someone loses an eye."

Molly looks like I just slapped her, and then laughs, that loud, bone shaking laugh that makes you feel good just hearing it.

"Have I told you lately that I love you, Hobbs?"

"No."

"Well, I do."

She finishes her make-up and I complain about my freckles. She says they look cute. I remind her they make me look like a kid, not a woman.

Then she sighs.

"Well, I don't know about you, Hobbs, but I can't stay here anymore," she says. "And I don't mean at Reba's house. I mean here in Baltimore. I just -- can't. With Frank and all. There's memories here, you know?"

At least people won't spray paint CANNIBALS on her home.

"I have a friend out in Colorado. She needs help on her ranch. It's way up in the Rocky Mountains, away from everything."

Each word sinks right down through me. I'm all cold and clammy.

"It's so beautiful there," Molly says. "My friend needs help with her ranch. And she'll give free room and board in exchange, and a wage. She's former military, like me. We tend to clump together," she smiles. "There's good schools there for Willy. But I just can't stay here."

I nod.

She's leaving me. My parents left me. Will and Hannibal won't have time for me. It'll take months for Will him to heal. Hannibal will be buzzing around him constantly. And they won't have time for me. Sure, it's selfish. Will needs Hannibal. Will needs people who can love him, now, and take care of him.

I guess I'll just have to take care of myself, like I always have. I did when I was growing up, as only child. I did when my Dad got me into killing those girls. I did it when my parents died and I was stuck in that hospital. I did it when I moved out on my own. I've always taken care of myself.

It's not a big deal.

"Well, if you're leaving, I'll need find a place to live. Maybe I could ask Reba --"

Molly scowls.

"What's the matter with you, Hobbs?"

"Huh?"

"My friend's offer is for you, too."

"What?"                                  

"Well, I told my friend that you might be interested in coming. She said that would be great. She could use another pair of hands. You know how to work hard. There's a college up there too, and you can enroll if you want. Or maybe you can take online classes?"

The kitchen wobbles around me, and I when I look down I see my own body. As if I did die in that kitchen, nearly two years ago. Hannibal and Will didn't save me after all. It's like I'm a spirit now, stepping out of my own body.

"Hobbs? You okay?"

I don't remember the last time I didn't have to take care of everything on my own.  

"Abigail --" Molly sounds worried.

"No, I'm -- it's -- happy crying. I swear."

She lets me cry. I hide my face in a paper towel, because this is the first time she's ever seen me cry.  

But what about Will and Hannibal? I can't just -- leave them -- can I? They're my family, I guess, and who even knows what I'd be without them.  

"Can I think about it?"

"Of course. The lease on the townhouse doesn't run out until August. There's plenty of time to think it over. There's no pressure. I just thought you should know -- the offer stands for you too. I would be stoked to have you with us."

"Really?"

" _Duh_ , Hobbs."

She has a mom look, face pinched and fretting.

"You sure you're okay though?"

"Yeah -- I just -- I'm going to the hospital."

"Hey, I'll swing by and pick you up after my thrilling FBI interview."

"Okay."

* * *

I should hate hospitals more. They're dried up and gross, and generally make me think of what a big joke my life is. But today the whole place just feels calm. Will is alive. He's going to be pretty weird looking, but he'll be okay.

And I'm alive. And I'm -- okay.

Of course Hannibal's here, right ahead of me. I barely miss smacking right into him. He looks like he might as well be dead. His hair is neat as always, but he's so pale, and he looks exhausted -- exhausted times infinity.

"Hey," I say.

"Abigail."

It shouldn't hurt me that he's curt, but whatever.

"How is he?"

"He's fine," he says. "He's not awake yet."

"Can I see him?" I ask.

"Perhaps later."

He looks like he wants to break my neck, but in a bored way, like he doesn't particularly care. Okay then.

"Well, tell him I said 'hi'."

Hannibal nods.

He turns and I watch him go into Will's room. I might as well make some attempt to study while I wait for Molly.

Of course, Hannibal doesn't leave Will's room. Two hours of not studying, and trying to make an uncomfortable chair comfortable, and nothing. The only time Hannibal left was to get some coffee from the waiting room. He squinted rather threateningly at me while he did.

I guess I'm being selfish again. It's not like I could actually see Will. His whole face is just a mass of gauze. It's kind of revolting how the nurses have to keep the wrapping loose enough so they can flush his wounds every few hours. That was something I wish I sat and watched, even once.

I just want him to know I care. But he doesn't need me. Neither does Hannibal.

I might love them, in really weird and different ways, but I guess I don't need them either.

I hear Molly's red boots -- those amazing red boots -- clopping down the hallways.  Her smile somehow takes the hard edges off everything.

_Love grows_ , Will told me.  _Sometimes it's a force of mind and circumstance, but once you get past those basic things, it needs to be fed. You can't just let it be, not if you actually want to keep it, and you want it to flourish. You have to water it and care for it. You have to feed it and nourish it. But if you give love time, and you nurture it -- it grows. It grows and grows._

Does love grow even when you don't notice it? Because this has been happening so slowly I didn't even know it.

I don't want to sleep with Molly. She's like a big sister, and being with her is like being home. It's waking up to Molly and Willy playing "what's that song?" while listening to the radio on Sunday mornings. It's Willy slamming all the doors because he's a clumsy dork. It's throwing balls at the park with Molly because she's anxious and she needs to get that energy out. It's Willy reading whole sections of Harry Potter to me over and over because he loves them so much, and me going "uh huh" and "yeah that is totally cool" for the millionth time. It's watching Saturday cartoons with Willy and Molly, all of us in our pajamas. It's Molly's light under her bedroom door while she reads at night.

And after a really long journey that didn't feel like it would ever end, I've finally arrived.

"Hey kiddo," she says. "How is Will?"

"Hannibal says he's fine, but won't let me in."

Molly sighs in a way which says  _what a bag of dicks._

"Right?"

"Do you want to go, or wait a little more?"

"Let's go," I say.

Will's hospital door gets small and smaller, until we turn a corner and I don't see it any more.

The cut on my throat is pretty much healed, and outside the sky is wide and blue. I know it's not endless, but it feels like it could be.

"I'm coming with you and Willy, to Colorado," I say.

"You sure?" she asks. She seems surprised.

"Yeah," I say.

It's nice to finally step out of that kitchen, and into my own damn life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [OOC: Okay, a footnote.
> 
> Primavera broke me in all the best possible ways. But it also made me so incredibly glad that Abigail is alive in this 'verse.
> 
> I have admittedly struggled with what to do with her character on some levels. I do like the relationship she shares with Will, and Hannibal, and want to explore what happened in the past a little more. But Abigail is difficult to write. In canon we are given so little of her, rather than what Will and Hannibal perceive her to be. I actually had different plans for her, but, after Primavera, sat down and I looked at what my Abigail's issues were, and what would be a satisfying way to tie up her current arc. And her issue is she never gets to move on from her trauma; she is always stuck there. So that's why I made this choice for her. It felt right.
> 
> She will still drop in from time to time. I love her character far too much to let her go entirely. But for now, this is her send-off.]


	161. Utterly and Completely

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> But the greater part reminds me that I've only ever wanted what is best for you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Originally posted here.](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/123905813878/utterly-and-completely)

[OOC: Follows after the last chapter.

Warnings for brief mentions of medical procedures, and torture. Also Hannibal being Hannibal. *le sigh*]

 

* * *

 

**Utterly and Completely**

**April 24**

**Hannibal**

The extent of the mutilation and lacerations should be exquisite.

But your face is nothing more than a bloody pulp, barely held together.

The piteous, gargling noise you make as they put you in the gurney and carry you to the ambulance should be music to me. It's a new sound, to add to those chambers of my mind palace reserved for cataloging every nuance of you.  

I should feel a kind of warmth between my stomach and my esophagus when I tell them I'm listed as your next of kin, legally speaking. You haven't even bothered returning my house-key, nor reclaiming yours from me, so there is no reason to believe that your legal paperwork was altered, either. Besides, who else would you trust in such an extensive capacity?

Truth be told, Will, I dreamed of the possibilities once we signed the paperwork granting each other legal and medical power over the other. I dreamed of having you rendered helpless by some kind of incident, and wholly dependent upon me.

But somehow this does not match up with anything that my fertile imagination conjured. The details themselves are fairly accurate: there is blood everywhere, and the EMTs are working hard to stabilize you. Your hold on my hand is painfully tight. You're in shock, I should think, because otherwise you'd be screaming in pain. This is fortunate, because if you did the rest of your face would surely tear open.

But there is something rather shallow about this whole affair. It is not nearly as entertaining as I had envisioned.

I should be in paroxysms of pleasure as you succumb the shock, too. Your breathing is jagged, your pulse increasingly erratic.

"He's going into cardiac arrest," I say, and the words sound as if they were said by someone else entirely.

I do not believe this is a disassociative episode. The chambers of my mind palace are all solid, and everything is in its proper place.  

Watching them place the paddles on your chest and shock you back, ought to render me positively breathless with exhilaration. Here I am, witnessing you inch nearer and nearer the event horizon of death herself.

It doesn't exactly entice me. It doesn't make me amorous or lustful.

Though you're still shivering through the aftershocks, you reach for me. Your grasp is desperate and clinging.

Please, Will. Don't cling to me as if I am your last thread to life. I might sever that thread just to see what would happen.

It's fortunate that we've arrived, and they roll you away to surgery.

I'm alone here, watching them take you away from me, the thread stretching thinner and thinner.

* * *

I find it difficult to imagine operating on you. I do try, as the hours pass and you are in surgery. How would I have mended you? How would I have put you back together?

For some reason I prefer not to think on it.  

I'm sure you'd be interested to know that Molly and Abigail have arrived. The police probably questioned them, but doubtless there were will be more interviews in the days to come. You know how these things are. Molly has been crying, but Abigail is brittle with trying not to cry. These details please me much less than they should. Perhaps I am tired. The only thing I've had since I've gotten here is the hospital coffee. It's heinous stuff, Will, truly lamentable.

"Is he going to be okay?" Abigail asks.  

If only this were more engaging to me. It's not that I want her, or Molly for that matter, dead. I simply wish they were not here. I feel as if I do not have the resources for courtesy, even.

I've never been more relieved to see another doctor as when your surgeon arrives, bearing news of your condition.

There is an overflow of medical jargon, and the words dissipate before I've even registered them.

"Can we see him?" Abigail asks.

"He's not awake, and we can only allow family, in intensive care."

Abigail looks at me, her expression truly pleading. I must confess I am not sure what she wants. Now that, I suppose, is somewhat fascinating.

The knot of dread forming in my stomach is also fascinating, and ridiculous. I have waited this long, and there is no question of my leaving you until you are stable and moved out of intensive care. I have doubtless seen worse. So I want to see you -- I do -- no matter what condition you must be in.

You're unspeakably fragile, a tiny human nucleus amidst a web of wires. The air hisses through the tracheostomy tube in your throat, and your face is obscured by bandages. The bandages are rather loose, presumably so the nurses can come and flush your wounds every few hours to prevent infection and necrosis.

There is such heaviness inside me as I sit in the chair at your beside.

I measure time now by your heart-rate monitor.

I have many desires in this moment. One part of me certainly wants to cut you loose and take you home, where I can care for you  _myself._ I would nurture you back to health, however marred and damaged you might be. Another part of me would like to pull your bandages off and examine the damage in detail. This part is also curious about things like your pain tolerance, and your morphine pump. And still another part of me rages. Frank had no right to do such damage to you. If I had done something like this, it would have at least been  _elegant_. This is just pure idiotic jealousy, and unfettered rage. This is just  _suffering._

But the greater part of myself seems to be over-ruling all of these other parts for the moment. This part of me sincerely hopes that you will be all right. This part envisions your recovery. This part ultimately wants to see you sitting on your front porch, surrounded by that herd of mongrels you so love. This part wants to see you smile again.  

Now that  _is_  interesting.

 

**April 27**

They've finally moved you from intensive care and removed that horrible tracheostomy tube. You have progressed so well, my Will, not that I would expect any less from you. I'm glad that you've been waking up for longer periods, and despite the morphine, you've become increasingly responsive. Perhaps not entirely cogent yet, but you will be soon enough. Despite some of the nurses, a few of which are sub-par at best, I am well pleased with your care here.

You would doubtless say, rather tartly, that this was a  _glowing recommendation_ coming from me. You might be right.

But since you have improved and are by all accounts stable, you know this means that I will have to leave you. You know what business I must attend to.

If he is not where I believe him to be, or I simply do not find him, I will return considerably earlier, to resume my vigil at your bedside. But if I do find him, well.

All you need know, for now, is that in fifteen hours I will return to you. Hopefully you will be awake.

 

**April 28**

Strange to say, but I have done the best I could.  I've a few spare hours to shower and wash the last of his filth from me, and to dress. Perhaps I will even have time for a decent breakfast before returning to the hospital.

There was no artistry in it, Will. I simply did what needed to be done. It was like defecating. It was more arduous a task to me than anything I can remember doing, and, if I am honest, the whole affair simply  _aggravates_  me.

The world is too bright and noisy as I stagger back to the hospital, and a soul-heavy weariness drags behind me. The only thing which has felt remotely "good" in the past twelve hours was putting on the red sweater you so enjoy. The one which you claim makes me look "soft" and "warm". Those might more accurately describe you, however, whenever I wear this sweater. It inspires you with such a sweet, nuzzling kind of intimacy. Though it's too hot for it this time of year, the fabric felt luxurious and comforting as I pulled it over my head.

The hospital is serenely pristine. I never told you that I enjoy hospitals. There is an orderly crispness about them which never fails to calm me. Everything is so very organized and sterilized. These spaces are so very satisfying, and I miss them at times.

Except, of course, when there are things which intrude on that. Like Abigail's artificially sweet shampoo, as she comes up behind me.

"Hello, Abigail."

Though I can admit she is a clever girl, I don't particularly care for pleasantries or her presence.  

It's not surprising that she wants to see you. But I've been away for fifteen hours now, so I don't find it rude to reclaim my position with you. I tell her to come and see you later.

It should please me to see the look of anger, followed by disappointment in her face. It does so very little for me.

She is gone, and we can be alone.

Fifteen hours precisely. I told you I would be back.

Your charts say you're doing well. There is still no sign of infection, or necrotic tissue. The doctors will be doing more surgeries in a few days, once the swelling has subsided. There was talk about revisions, to try and make things cosmetically pleasing. I don't suppose you will find it a comfort that you had  _most_ of your face was still attached, albeit, rather precariously, and therefore they didn't need to do too much skin grafting. Still, you shall have many scars.

I wonder, briefly, what you will look like.

I find the chair next to your bed more fascinating than conjecture right now, though this chair is not at all comfortable. But I belong here, sitting across from you, waiting for you to speak.

I'm pleased that he didn't cut your tongue, or wound your vocal chords. The sound of your voice, and your laugh in particular, are both things I would wait entire lifetimes to hear again. It would have wounded me if those had been too altered.

The chair squeaks and squeals and never feels any more comfortable. The coffee continues to be heinous, scalding and acidic enough to be paint thinner. Even humming Bach and pacing the room displeases me. My voice sounds so thin and it just doesn't do Bach  _any_ justice to  _merely hum_ in this room.  

You are beginning to lose your smell. You smell too clean, too anesthetized and sterilized here. You should smell green and woody, with the damp hint of rivers.

And the silence from you is truly terrible.

I need to crawl into bed with you. I belong here, next to you. I  _crave_ you. You belong to me, despite any protestations you've had in the past, [and your refusal to take my collar](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/106153946393/ooc-christmas-timestamp-warnings-for). We both know that.

You're warm, warmer than you are when you're asleep, but not warm enough to have a fever. Your heart is slower than usual, but that could be attributed to the morphine. Still, the air rasps around you face, and your beautiful good eye blinks at me. You know me. You see me.

"Hello, Will."

Though your hands are slow, and unsteady, you still reach around me. As if you could hold me in this state. You've even forgotten your morphine button for the moment, making slow circles in my shoulder instead. Then little taps, spasms perhaps, as the pain seeps through your consciousness. But these taps, though slow, are measured. Morse code.

I couldn't be prouder every time you show me just how marvelous you are. You rival every wonder of this world.

H-E-Y

I can't help pressing closer to you just so I can hear your heartbeat.  

I - B - E - O - K - ?

"The doctors are optimistic. I am even more so, but that is because I have tremendous faith in you. You will need more surgeries, though. The recovery will be a very long one, I'm afraid."

Ah, how deliciously acerbic of you to deploy your middle finger to express your obvious displeasure.

F - R - A - N - K - ?

"That is taken care of."

Your heart skids.

Q - U - I - C - K - ?

"Quick enough."          

I suppose one day I will tell you the whole story of Frank's demise. He made it rather too easy, so I presume he was either careless, stupid, lazy, or simply desired to be caught. I believe the latter, because he kept blubbering at me, [saying things like  _please love him, Doctor_](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/122016321473/this-beast-so-ravenous-for-love).

It was all rather insipid in the end.

The worst part was that no matter what I did to him, I could never hurt him as much as his Grandmother had hurt him. And wasn't that the whole  _point_ of the exercise? But defleshing him while he was still alive seemed like a mercy in the scheme of things.

I wish his screams had been more satisfying to me. I'd wanted to hear them, but as soon as they started, it didn't seem to matter at all.  

I did what had to be done.

Your tapping slows, so it is either difficult to concentrate, or, you're in more pain. Both are very likely.

R - E - M - A - I - N - S -?

"There aren't any. Not even enough to . . .  digest."

N - O - N - E - ?

"None."

I wouldn't deign to eat such a thing. He deserved to be eradicated beyond all measure.If I could have torn him apart on a molecular level, I would have done so. I would give anything to go back in time, to the very primordial egg from which all matter was born, and to destroy the pieces which would eventually become Francis Dolarhyde.

But why are you shaking now?

S - A - D

"He  _hurt_ you," I say.

It's gall in my throat that you even  _care._

I - K - N - O - W. B - U - T - M - O - L - L - Y - E - T - C

So even now, with your face brutalized, you will still worry about other people. I suppose you are concerned about Molly, that creature's "friend", having some kind of closure. Well, she can have the closure I might have had, if Frank had succeeded in killing you. Which is: none. None at all.

Maybe she doesn't deserve that, but that is the punishment I have meted out for Frank, on your behalf: he doesn't exist any longer. There is no rest or closure for some  _thing_  that simply doesn't exist.

Your fingers dig into my shoulder. I relish the delicious tremors of your anguish as you grope for your morphine button.

All the different parts of me argue about what to do. One part says I should change your dosage so the next one kills you. Maybe the nurses will be there in time to save you. Or I could revive you myself, just for the pleasure of having the power of life and death over you. Another part says I should change the dosage so you spend the day in agony, just so I can understand what your body does under such extremes of pain.

But the greater part reminds me that I've only ever wanted what is best for you. Today, that means not tampering with your morphine. The other parts agree, though with some reluctance and resentment.

I find the button and squeeze it for you.  You're go wonderfully pliant and slack.

Some of these subpar nurses have been lax in their cleaning of you. They've left a crust of dried blood on your neck. It's appalling, but I suppose it's to my advantage now, as I lathe my tongue across it. Your taste is bitter and succulent, hot and violent. It is  _you._

You know it doesn't matter what the greater part says.

You are mine here, utterly and completely.

Remarkable boy.


	162. Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _We dream dreams together._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Originally posted here.](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/124583594363/home)

[OOC: This follows immediately after the last chapter.

Warnings for Will being a self-destructive git, some bloodplay.]

 

* * *

 

**Home**

**Will**

**April**

Wet and warm; tongue, the scrape of teeth.

You tell me about _vor_ : the root of devour, and vortex. Your voice humming and throbbing inside me, rolling around in my ribcage.

Your tongue and teeth on my neck again. A hot darkness I sink into.

There's no bottom here; only you.

Hannibal.

 

**May**

All the days are blurred; the hours too, and the minutes. I'm eating jello. I'm lying down. The room is dark and warm. The room is cold and white. Nurse after nurse after nurse. Check my temperature. Check my wounds. Check my pump. No clots in my legs, hurray.

I'm eating jello. I'm sitting up. I can go to the bathroom on my own. Oh, no, I can't. The room is gray and silent. They take my pump away. The room is black and grainy with noise. My leg fell asleep, but I didn't.

The only thing which is constant, which is solid, is you.

A lodestone in my landscape of sand. When it is dark and cold, you are there. When it is white and warm, you're there. When I'm eating, and then throwing up, you cup my face in your hands. When the nurses poke and prod, you soothe me with throat kisses.

You massage my legs.

I like it best when you ignore the nurses at night. You curl into bed with me, where I can feel your tongue and teeth, your heat and darkness.

* * *

This nurse, at least, is cheerful. She doesn't let me run into things. She makes sure I get my percocet on time. So that's nice.

I like walking, even though it's hard. There's only so many lumps on the ceiling I can count before I develop a headache, or get bored, or both. I like it better when you take me on walks, but you were napping, and Nurse Cheerful was there.

"Your boyfriend is so attentive," she says says. "I wish mine was half as attentive as yours."

No. No no _no._  

You said -- you _said --_ he was taken care of. You said Frank was _gone._ So how can she be talking about him?

Boyfriend; definitely not James. We broke up years ago. And you and I broke up, didn't we?

I -- broke up with -- you.

I'm sorry.

_I'm sorry._

"It's okay, honey, your depth perception is gone. It's okay if you run into things."

I want to go back to bed. I want to throw up. I want to stop waking up with my face all fucked up. [I want to go back the moment I left you](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/108102879043/ooc-warnings-for-angst-thanks-to). I want to turn back time and crawl into bed with you. I want to say:

I'm sorry.

I forgive you.

But if Frank's alive -- he's going to find me and cut the rest of me up. He's going to slice me open and fuck me and all that will be left will be a hacked, bloody mess. The last thing I'll feel is pain and helplessness and like I don't even belong to myself.

"Oh, here he is."

Your hands are firm, your body solid. You cradle me as I fall into you.

"Will, are you all right?"

The bed is warm, and even the scratchy blankets feel good. Your hand on my chest anchors me.

"Breathe, Will, breathe."

One.

My name is Will Graham.

Two.

The room is bright and lukewarm. 

Your hand is calloused and familiar and _I'm safe._

"He's fine," Nurse Cheerful says. "Probably just a dizzy spell from the walking."

Nurse Cheerful fluffs some pillows and shifts my legs.

I can only half see you. Is it morning now? Or night? The light moves around too quickly here.

"I told him I wish _my_ boyfriend were as attentive as you," Nurse Cheerful says.  

She was talking about _you_ being my boyfriend.

Of course.

And are you -- _preening?_

Fucking hilarious, this.

"Time for more percocet," Nurse Cheeful chirps.

 _Pip-plop_ , the pink pills land into their little paper cup.

You cradle my chin. One pill, small and smooth, slides in. Then a gulp of water. You don't even let a drop fall. Your thumb is so careful against my broken lips as you feed me the second pill, and more water.

I'm not going to laugh. I prefer not to choke.

"Are you all right, Will?"

"Boyfriend?" I manage, after swallowing.

Words are strange, still. They split and strain with my face.  

But trying to speak is worth it, if only to see that devilish smile of yours.

* * *

It's black. Down the hall, someone mewls in pain.  

You lie next to me, your breath puffing against my shoulder.

Hey -- do you feel that?

The bed rocking, back and forth, back and forth? The pitch and sway?

But you're asleep.

* * *

Home, you said.

We're going home.

I can walk on my own. But the sunlight outside the hospital burns my tender scars. The air is greasy and rubs against the wounds which haven't yet sloughed their surgical glue. The streets, as we drive, scream with colors, with noise and smells. Everything still swirls and spins even when we stop.

"We're home."

I know these steps. I slept on them that one time, [when you were a raging fuckhole and wouldn't talk to me](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/98985517698/whats-the-worst-punishment-youve-ever-had).

I want Wolf Trap. I want sweet, wet earth and birdsong. Not Bach on the harpsichord, countertops that glow with cleanliness, and everything lined up symmetrically.  

"Will --?"

"I want to go home. Not your home."

It hurts to cry but I don't know how else to get this frustration out of me. My face feels like it's going to peel open.  

You actually look sad.

"It's just temporary. It's easier for me to take you to your follow up appointments, and to take care of you."

There's not much I can do but let you herd me into your entryway. There is such tenderness in your touch as you take my coat.

_Click-clack._

Ah, the percocet is working. I'm hearing and seeing things, specifically: Winston and Zoe in your house, waggling their tails at me.

But Winston shoves his face into my stomach, and he's warm and solid, not at all intangible. Zoe yaps, her nails digging through my socks and into my ankle.

I don't have the strength to keep them from licking my face open, but you hold them at bay. All I have to do is pet my dogs, and enjoy their happy whines.

"I thought Beverly and Alana had my dogs?"

"All but these two. I thought it would help."

You've never hated the dogs. You don't like the mess they make -- there were the times I found you scowling and plucking stray dog hairs off my couch -- but you never hated them. But neither would you ever want them in _your_ house.

I don't really care if my smile splits my face wide open.

* * *

So you've given me this guest room, the one with the fossilized ammonites spiraling along the east wall.  

You told me once that these ammonites are 300 million years old. You told me that as you thrust into me. You thrust so hard I had ammonite bruises on my back and ass. How satisfying was it, to mouth those bruises and feel me quiver?

In 300 million more years, you and I will be long dead. And these memories I have of us will be gone. We won't even be the shadow of our own memories. Or of any one else's. We will be nothing at all.

But without you here -- I don't feel like anything. I've grown used to you coiling against me in the night. I'm cold. The scars on my face spread, down my throat and shoulders, the cracks widening over my stomach and my thighs until I'm falling apart, piece by piece, a sad heap of meat and bone, and then --

"Hannibal?"

I don't mean to sound so panicked. I know you're right across the hall. If I spoke normally, you'd hear me.

"Will? Are you all right?"

I don't know.

I hate that you've not been impatient with me, not once. I hate that you cancelled all your appointments for a month, just so you could take care of me. I hate that you've done all of this for me, and we're not even together (are we?).

I wish you'd hit me. Just once. I've earned it. I never did anything like this for you -- all the coddling and babying and _loving --_ no. I walked out on you.

So I hate you for making me feel childish and peevish.

I hate you for reminding me that I failed you. I failed _us._

"Will?"

I whimper because it's the only noise I can make.

Your footsteps, and then yellow light blooming after you turn on the bedside lamp.

When I take your hand, I feel more like myself.

 

**June**

I could fall asleep like this, cupped in your hands, the blade whispering over my skin. Your physician's hands, gentle and adroit, as you use the straight razor to shave around my scars.

"You're healing well."

No -- don't say that as if I am still worth seeing.

"I probably look like shit."

"You look beautiful, Will."

I am not sure what's worse: not knowing how bad I look -- I can avoid mirrors and reflections indefinitely -- or knowing that you still love me like this.

So I say: " _Liar._ "

Go on. Cut me open.

We both know you're definitely _not_ a liar. Oh, you bend and twist and arrange words and the truth in both curious and fascinating new ways, but you never outright _lie_.

So go ahead. Cut me open for being rude. At least I won't have to endure you loving me, despite the fact I'm ruined well beyond measure.

The blade slithers over my throat and I tremble as you open me. There's a hot gush of blood, and you spread the wound wider with your fingers before leaning in to suck.

It's only a nick, though, and you lathe the cut with your lips and tongue until it closes.

* * *

I'm going to lose this argument, but I can _try,_ can't I?

If I asked you to hold my dick while I pissed, you would. It's not right. It's not _healthy._ I don't want -- I don't _need_ \-- you to do everything for me. I don't need you _all the time_. 

"I can shower on my own --"

"You most certainly can't _shower_ , you need to keep your wounds dry for at least another week --"

"Well, then I will take a bath --"

"Very well."

"Fine."

I drop the towel before you've turned away. Oh, I want to spite you. I know how much you like looking at me, at my body. That is not deformed, at least, and I can enjoy seeing the way your lips thin angrily as I bend over to run the water.

But then I am a whore. A faggot. Bent over, and easy. Just like Frank said, his words echoing in your enormous bathroom while the tub fills with water. And I'm naked in front of you.

"Sorry," I mumble, covering myself.

"I've seen you naked many times, Will."

"But we're not . . ."

You don't even say anything. You guide me into the tub. You make sure the water is the right temperature -- and you know. Of course you know.

The water is not at all like the deep, cold ocean. It's warm, and there is a bottom here. I can see my ribs sticking out, and how my limbs are matchsticks after two weeks in the hospital.

"We'll get you fattened back up," you say.

"Ha, ha. With oysters and acorns?"

It's just as well that you ignore the jibe.

The way you touch me is not like any touch from before, from when we were together. When we were together, your touch could arouse, comfort, and calm me. But this -- this is something entirely new, and different.

You've always been gentle. But now it you are infinitely so. You're like some curate, and I am a delicate, damaged manuscript you want to salvage. You open me carefully. You spread and examine me. Your hands find and follow the curves of my body. Your palms cradle my shoulders, and press into my lower back. Your hands smooth over my chest, my stomach, and between my thighs.

I'm so fragile here. And I've nothing, absolutely nothing that I can offer you -- except my surrender.

As you press circles into my scalp, I finally allow myself to relax into your hands.  

* * *

It's not a surprise to either of us when I stop going to my room at night, and instead come to yours. It's not a surprise when I clamber into your bed and curl in your arms.

* * *

The ocean spreads around us and our boat: it's vast, dark blue, and bottomless. As we cast further out, the land becomes smaller and smaller.

You let me do things. You ask questions, and you watch. You're curious as always. But you let me do things on my own.

 _I don't always need you -- do I?_ I think, as loosen the ropes on the jib sail.

Your hands around me as we stand on the deck and look over the ocean. It is night. The sky is black, dappled with white stars.

"Where are we going?" you ask.

I don't know.

 

**July**

I'm so happy here, with you.

Your scrambled eggs are the best thing I've ever had. They're silk on my tongue. They don't even clot against the scars inside my cheeks, and my jaw doesn't hurt when I chew.

Tonight, I'm giving you extra kisses, right in that sensitive spot under your left ear.

But tonight -- I'm supposed go back.

"Are you ready to go home?" you ask.

My home. Wolf Trap. The place with the sweet woody smell and birdsong. 

The place that is not with you.

You're vastly interested your glass of orange juice. So it feels safe to speak the truth.

"No," I say. "I'm not ready to go home. But Beverly and Alana shouldn't have my dogs much longer."

You seem pleased, and this makes me happy.

"We can work something out, I'm sure."

* * *

But home I must go, eventually. Maybe two weeks later than we had planned. If not now, then in another two weeks, or months.

Sometimes, at night, when I'm wrapped in your arms, I think: _maybe never_.

It doesn't feel like home any more. Winston and Zoe are not enough fur and movement to fill the whole house. It smells too clean, too fresh. Not like thyme and sandalwood and sharp white wine. There is no symphony of noise spilling from the kitchen. No Bach reverberating through the hallways. I can't hear you humming in the shower. I can't feel your lips against my shoulder as I lie in bed, somewhere between waking and dreaming.

I don't smell salt in the air, here. The sheets are too coarse, too thin, and I can't get the corners right as I make the bed.

And your footsteps list, restlessly, across the porch.

"Do you have to go?" I ask, leaning in the doorway.

"Not if you don't want me to."

I snort.

"Yeah, but what if I didn't want you to? Would you still want to stay?"

You look as though I've offended you.

"Always," you say.

* * *

After dinner, as night falls, we lie naked in my bed. I relish this: the simple, profound pleasure of simply looking and touching. Your fingers move over my hip, my stomach, and my chest. You thumb my tracheal scar. Then, with your lips, you trace the web of scars on my face.

I run my knuckles [over the scar in your stomach](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/107467468018/a-new-year-january-1-timestamp).

"Is it wrong to wish I'd given you this scar?" I whisper.

"No," you say, between kisses. "Is it wrong to wish I'd give you your scars?"

I laugh.

"Maybe a little."

I move down, and with my scarred lips, suck and kiss the pale scar on your belly.

My scars against yours; yours against mine.

Between the two of us, we are almost a whole person.

* * *

We dream dreams together.

The jib sail fills with wind and carries us forward, across the ocean.

Where are we going?

Home.

Where is that?

Right here.

With you.     

Always?

Always.


	163. The Nature of Life

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _But things are not the same, and never will be._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Originally posted here.](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/124585053673/the-nature-of-life)

Well, it's been some time since I updated.

There's really too much to say which would adequately cover all that has happened in the past months. Every time I tried to update, I found myself suffocating beneath the weight of, well,  _everything._   

Hannibal suggested I break it all down into smaller, "manageable" pieces.

So here goes:

**Will Graham's List of More “Manageable”, Bite-Sized Pieces**

  1. The last you heard, [Hannibal had bumped into Frank and myself](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/117174825633/did-hannibal-start-seeing-someone-else-after-you). It would perhaps be an understatement to say that Frank did not react well. He actually attacked me. When I tried to break up with him, he decided that meant he should stalk me. He attacked me  _again_ , [and almost succeed in slicing my face off](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/121935682378/and-promises-april-24-timestamp).
  2. Good times were not had, at all.
  3. If that's not grim enough, [Frank was also responsible for killing two whole families](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/120625595678/in-the-afterbirth). You might have heard about it in the news? Something about "The Tooth Fairy", or some equally repulsive and tacky name branded by the likes of Tattle-Crime.com. I am not sure why they called Frank that. There were rumors about sexual assault and suck marks, but, I can verify that wasn't the case.
  4. I guess the good news is that I am alive?
  5. I was in the hospital for nearly two weeks, and recovering about six weeks after.
  6. I am blind in my left eye. I see some gradations of light and darkness, sometimes vague colors, but no shapes, certainly, nothing even an Impressionist painter would consider discernible. The most irritating thing is that I trip and run into things all the time, because I have no depth perception _._ Reading gives me headaches. I have a crick in my neck from craning to look at things. I am relearning how to drive.
  7. Hannibal is sweet and thinks I will regain some vision in that eye. I really think the doctors should take it out altogether and give me a glass eye. That way I can pop it out during lectures and scare the shit out of new trainees. Also, I can leave the glass eye in Hannibal's coffee.
  8. He would not be fazed.
  9. I want to be a pirate for Halloween. 
  10. Hannibal pretends he is not amused by this.  
  11. I am, for all intents and purposes, deformed. The scars on my face have healed for the most part, but they just feel -- disgusting. They're enormous raised veins, soft and then hard in all the wrong places. Hannibal says that in a year I can have plastic surgery. I snort at this because yes, there is  _so_  much about my face that can be fixed at this point _._
  12. Abigail has nicknamed me "Picasso" because apparently I make her think of Cubism.
  13. I have no idea where Frank is. No-one does. [He has eluded capture](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/122016321473/this-beast-so-ravenous-for-love) and is considered "at large and dangerous".
  14. The only reason this last piece of information doesn't provoke panic attacks is that I am very highly medicated. Can you say "sedatives"?
  15. Don't get me wrong: medications are wonderful. I've just been dowsed in them since I was young, to help me reign in the empathy disorder. I've tried most of the drugs they usually prescribe for things like depression, anxiety, insomnia, mood disorders, schizophrenia, etc. Of course none of them ever worked well with my brain. If they did work, well, that would just make things  _too_ easy.
  16. This is why I've self medicated with whiskey for years. At least whiskey is cheapish, and it's dependable in that I know what side effects it has.
  17. Hannibal and my psychiatrist both say that whiskey is not a good "medication" for my problems.
  18. Yes, I have a psychiatrist. She was recommended to me by Hannibal (of course, of course). She used to be Hannibal's therapist, so I suppose I am in good hands.
  19. I am utterly enthralled to be in therapy ( _nth_  time's the charm?). I  _love_  therapy even though I know all the tricks. And I so  _want_  to be in therapy, and not because I am too tired and overwhelmed to fight, and I have simply accepted therapy as a necessity, however tedious.
  20. My other, non-therapy, non-medication options are actually worse (including, but not limited to: the complete inability to handle any kind of social contact ever again, the complete inability to function at all, insanity and/or drinking myself to death).
  21. So I go to therapy and take my pills like a good boy.
  22. I tinker with boat engines, and try not to have a heart attack every time I hear a door snap shut.  
  23. This is a lot harder than it may seem.
  24. Also, I hate mirrors.
  25. When I can't calm down, Hannibal runs his fingers over my scars. He reminds me I am here.
  26. I dream of getting a boat and sailing away and leaving everything behind.
  27. My psychiatrist thinks this is an escapist fantasy.
  28. Duh.
  29. Hannibal likes my fantasy. He wants me to tell him about it. What does my boat look like? What did I name it? How does the wind taste as we cast off? What color is the ocean that day? And the sky?
  30. If I tell him about those things, he has to tell me what he would make if I caught a marlin, tuna, or a shark.
  31. "You could hook a shark?" he asked, bemused. "I could hook a shark. I'm a good fisherman," I said. "Of course," he said, kissing me.
  32. The kiss was infinitely tender and just a little teasing.
  33. He slid some tongue in there as well.



Oh yes. You probably want to know what has happened between myself and Hannibal since -- well --  _everything_.  

In the last post, which Hannibal wrote, [he did dangle things about our relationship](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/119034416403/regarding-wills-recent-absence), though at that point [I was still (mostly) medically glued together and enjoying the benefits of percocet](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/124583594363/home). But Hannibal, being Hannibal -- he's sort of an optimist about things going the way he wants them to.

And, in this case, not entirely without reason.

We haven't "officially" gotten back together, whatever that means. Before Frank sliced and diced, [Hannibal and I had a conversation about resuming our relationship](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/121109232108/sweetness-after-grief). To be honest, [Hannibal helped me a lot with the whole Frank ordeal](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/120373404823/bitter-would-have-me-taste-my-taste-was-me) even before my face was pureed.

But we haven't spoken about the nature of our relationship since. Well, not in words. It's been mostly about me getting better, which is rather selfish but unavoidable. Hannibal doesn't seem to have minded. He has enjoyed spoiling me  _rotten._ And despite my better instincts to protest, to insist I am a grown adult . . . I have succumbed to the pampering.

At this point, I'm pretty much living with him. In the weeks immediately after my discharge from the hospital, it was easier to just stay with him. And then it was just so darn  _comforting_. So I really haven't left. We stay at my house on the weekends, and play with the dogs. During the week I am with him, at his home, and the dogs -- all but Winston and Zoe -- are with Beverly and Alana.

Though we haven't talked about our relationship explicitly, we don't need to. Lately, we are of the same mind. We wake and dress together. We cook and eat together. We get ready for bed and read together in the evening. We sleep together. We haven't had sex, but we enjoy cuddling, and touching, and kissing. We do everything much like we used to, even though things are different. Everything between us seems -- quieter, deeper, and more intimate.

Mostly, we are just with one another.

And that's enough. That's more than enough. It's more than I could ever ask for.

But things are not the same, and never will be. Hannibal would say that is the nature of life itself. The challenge is not always about meeting it, but rather, accepting it. To allow ones moorings to become undone and find oneself adrift in a vast ocean of the unknown.

To be changed.

This will be my last post for some months. I need time to continue recovering, and time to be with Hannibal. But there shall always be more stories to tell.

Ciao (for now),

Will


	164. Bottomless and Lovely

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's red -- searing, arterial red. A clawing, gnawing, animal, snarling and tearing my guts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Originally posted here on Tumblr.](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/129922927098/bottomless-and-lovely-will)

[OOC: Well, Will's back. >:D

Warnings for internalized homophobia, blood, lots of blood, violence, PTSD and rape recovery.

[This song was the unofficial soundtrack for this section](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=U38JBoY09GI), and I do recommend listening to it as part of your reading experience.

With many thanks to [es-therru](http://es-therru.tumblr.com/) for researching Will’s meds (it’s an exhausting list!!) side-effects, withdrawal, etc.]

 

* * *

 

**Bottomless and Lovely**

**Will**

**September 25, 2015**

 

He's all unforgiving, sharp edges, like broken glass. Through my good eye, the shadows broaden his shoulders, lengthen his spine. He towers -- almost ominous, foreboding. If he turns his face just enough, I can pretend he's a scar on his lip, and I can imagine his New England accent is simply a soft slur.

And this feeling's not the residual taint of bile in the back of my throat, the tremors which have kept me up for three nights.

I won't gag. I fucking won't.

No, this is different. It's red -- searing, arterial red. A clawing, gnawing, animal, snarling and tearing my guts.

"I wasn't sure when you started talking to me at the bar," he says.

The sweat nauseous and sticky between my fingers.

 _Focus:_  his bobbing Adam's apple. The fat pulse of his jugular.

"Last time -- you know. The last time I tried to meet up with a guy it was through the internet. He was all lisping and flamboyant. I'm not. . . I'm not a faggot like that, you know?"

I won't laugh, hysterically, in his face. I won't lay into him with my words, slicing him into pieces. Tell him what a fucking hypocrite he is. He wants the same ass and cock that any of those faggots wanted, but at least they could  _admit it, own it,_ and wear it like a badge of honor, instead of skulking around like a coward in the dark.

I don't even fucking care why he does it. He was unfortunately born and grew up to look  _just enough_  like Frank, and to show up at the wrong bar at the wrong time. More than anything, he's unfortunate enough  _to be_  just enough like Frank, with that craven underbelly of internalized homophobia. It smells like desperation and fear and self-hatred. I can smell it even through the swamp-water sludge of withdrawal: a cantankerous rot.

Even through my shuddering, stuttering thoughts, men like this make it so goddamn easy. All I had to do at the bar was talk about repairing boat engines and squeezing off a few rounds at the gun range. All I had to do was give him a few significant enough glances and ask him if he wanted to go someplace else. So we drove to this paltry and abandoned service road, deep in the woods, and far from anywhere in particular. And once we've had enough alcohol that it would somehow excuse our actions, we can get to the business of fucking and pretending nothing ever happened. No-one would know our sins.

"So, what do you like?" he ventures.

Red, and then white, like blood in my mouth, staining my teeth.

"Fucking guys."

I'm not going to vomit, but I really have to stop shaking if I want to be convincing. Even with my thoughts teaming, a swarming, hissing black mass of hornets, all battering the inside of my skull.

"Oh," he says, disappointed because he really wanted to fuck  _me._ I suppose that's not off the table.

"Or getting fucked. Sometimes that's nice," I amend without even stammering, and he smiles.

Easy enough to get him in the back of his car, and straddle him. No kissing -- of course not, we're not  _those_  kind of queers -- but sucking him until his knees shake against my shoulders. I can't vomit on his dick, of course, but deep throating gives me something to do and explains all the gagging at least.

The folding knife's blade burns white as I open it.

At first he doesn't know what that  _ripping_ sensation is. Is it a bug? Did I just scratch him?

But then the blood gushes down his chest, his throat gapes open like a second mouth, and air rasps through severed tendons and muscle -- just long enough for him to blink -- and for the moon and stars to vanish.

His body collapses, blood showering me and the backseat of his car. Blood, fresh, and red and burning as my rage. Scalding wet blood in my mouth, soaking my hands, chest, face.

I don't hear the screaming, but I  _feel_  it, in my throat, long and low. It feels like the sound a wounded animal would make.

It's short work to turn his face to a bloody pulp with the knife. And when his face is like this, it's so, so easy to imagine he's Frank.

But the red, hissing rage drains from me, like water from a shattered mug. At least for now.

It's utterly calming: stripping out of my clothes, my socks and shoes and all, and throwing them in the backseat of the car with his body. I'm the intelligent psychopath I always worried about becoming: the man who paints the inside of a car with gasoline and finds the smell heavenly and sweet. The man who enjoys the acrid scent of fire, ash, and blood.

Without my mind and senses drowned in the medication cocktail, the night blackness is voracious, and the fire -- red and orange and yellow -- is neon bright, with wide flaming tongues lapping the darkness.  

It's a pity I have to dress in clean clothes, and cover up the blood staining my body. The redness is so bottomless, and lovely.

More than anything though, this place, with the fire and the blood and the ash and the dark -- is wonderful. I've finally cut Frank to pieces with my own hands. I burned him to nothing. The air is clean and cool through the rolled down window as I drive home.

Not wonderful --  _beautiful._

It's also ugliest thing in the world.


	165. Angry Arrogant Vain Flapping Man-Swan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Question for Will - What's Hannibal like when he's ill.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Originally posted here.](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/133338661613/hello-question-for-will-whats-hannibal-like)

>   **Anonymous asked: Hello! Question for Will - What's Hannibal like when he's ill?**

 

Well, given recent events, [wherein Hannibal  ~~smothered~~   _nursed_  me for a few months](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/124583594363/home-timestamp), I shouldn’t really complain. But that’s precisely what I’m going to do.

There are many words which capture the excruciating experience that is Hannibal being sick. They include:

  * Exasperating.
  * Painful.
  * Agonizing. 
  * Why god why.
  * Yes, Hannibal, you are being an enormous pain in the ass.
  * Please just go to bed and rest – ah, hell.
  * No, it’s fine,  I swear I know how to get vomit out of your posh carpet. I have dogs after all.
  * _Get back in bed._
  * You’re a huge angry arrogant vain flapping man-swan with fluids coming out of both ends.   
  * You have to admit that description is a  _little_  bit funny.  
  * Why are you like this.
  * I hate my life.
  * If I smother you in your sleep, I could honestly say you died of respiratory failure. It might not look like murder.
  * Please feel better today so you can be less of a pain in the ass.
  * You are forty-nine, not five, so please stop pouting like that.
  * You need to eat, even if it is jello from the box. I promise we can make the pretentious fish jello later.  
  * That temper tantrum has made you unsexy for at least a month after this flu ends.
  * Of course I will give you a bath. You are a big baby, after all.
  * Of course I will hold you.
  * And wash your hair.
  * And not get suds in your eyes, even if I want to.
  * And I will towel you off and take you back to bed.
  * Of course those are fresh sheets, and clean pajamas.
  * You know you should take those vitamins, you are a doctor.
  * You should rest.
  * Yes, of course I love you. 
  * Idiotic man. 



The last time he was sick, this was followed by:

  * Oh my god, I’m exhausted beyond exhausted.
  * Why does everything hurt? I’m not that old, am I?
  * The throat tickle is just dry air.
  * I’m dizzy because I’m tired.
  * It’s food poisoning or something. I’ve been eating take-out crap.
  * It’s fine, Hannibal, go back to bed.
  * (There is no truer love than holding someone’s hair back while he vomits.)
  * _Do_  I have a fever?
  * Wow.
  * Maybe _I_ should go to bed.
  * I told you that I wouldn’t make it to the bathroom, didn’t I?
  * Just leave me here to die.
  * I hate jello.
  * No. No no no no  _no_.
  * Not the pretentious chicken soup, not now.
  * Just – I just want some ginger ale? Okay? The normal store bought kind.
  * Okay. Fine.  _Fine_. Just give me the ginger ale and let me go to sleep. Jesus.
  * Why not?
  * A blow job really would make me feel better. It would be  _soothing._
  * A hand job then?
  * Fine. We can just cuddle.
  * Get your cold feet off me.
  * Don’t hog the blankets.
  * _Fine._
  * Fine. You were right. This does feel really nice.
  * (Listening to your heartbeat is really very soothing.)
  * (Good-warm, not fever-warm.)
  * No, I am  _not_  as annoying as you when you’re sick. 
  * I am just not. 
  * _Good_ night. 




	166. Kiss and (Don't) Tell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How do Will and Hannibal balance their crazy adventurous and spontaneous sex lives with the necessity of pre-sex prep?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Originally posted here.](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/133497526708/how-do-will-and-hannibal-balance-their-crazy)

> **How do Will and Hannibal balance their crazy adventurous and spontaneous sex lives with the necessity of pre-sex prep? In short, douching, or nah?**

 

I am so incredibly relieved you asked, Anon. I’ve sat around the greater part of this entire day, wondering if someone, _anyone_ , besides my beloved idiot Hannibal, would notice all the prep I’d done to make my every orifice suitable and appealing for sodomy. And  _my god,_ I shudder to think of the prep  _Hannibal_ himself goes through on a daily basis, just to ensure he is properly fuckable. 

This is not even taking into account the highly advanced nearly telepathic means of communication we’ve developed, so we know exactly, on a scale of 0 - 5, how horny we are, in order to accurately gauge if a carnal rendezvous must ensue. 

For example: say I hit a 5 on my scale. I might have the sudden and uncontrollable desire to drop my pants right in the middle of a lecture. Hannibal, being at a 3, but knowing that my predicament is dire, would immediately come to my classroom and fuck me senseless over the desk while my students watched in either horror, fascination, lust, or a mixture, and my boss sighed heavily and dreamt of early retirement. 

Ahem. More to your question, Anon:   
  
Well, there are ways and there are _ways_.  
  
And one should not always kiss and tell.


	167. Bless Me Father

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dear Will, do priests and churches turn you on?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC: I am going to hell.
> 
> Warnings for: abuse and misuse of Catholic rituals.
> 
> Also featuring: bottom!Hannibal. >:D
> 
> [Originally posted here.](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/133757374723/dear-will-do-priests-and-churches-turn-you-on)

If you exclude the cross, Anon, the traditional Roman Catholic rosary has 59 beads.

I never rightly understood nor cared for religion. As a child, I wasn’t raised into any particular denomination, and only went to church on Christmas and Easter. Since I was never a church-going man, there was never any reason for me to be turned on by anything, well, churchly.

Hannibal is not a religious man by any means of the imagination either, but he does enjoy religious imagery, art, and traditions, and the general idea of god’s maliciousness.

So we can say, that at some point in the course of our turbulent relationship, he managed to “convert” me.

But conversion is an easy thing, when you have a naked, sweating Hannibal Lecter on his hands and knees, curled at your feet.

These sorts of activities begin when I don my vestments: a traditional cassock. Once that happens, and my hair is combed neatly, and my glasses adjusted just so, I am Father Graham. I have an air of beauty and contemplation which belies the quiet violence I can enact on my seminarian, Hannibal.

He always comes to me, revealing the murderous urges and blasphemous thoughts he has. And I always begin by stripping him. Tearing off his clothes, and making him bend over, naked. He says a Hail Mary every time I spank him, either with my hand or a paddle.

When his ass glows pink, I have him roll on his back, and recite the Lord’s Prayer -- in Latin, of course -- while I drizzle wax over him. I coat his tender nipples, and lay long strips down his belly. If he moans in either pain or pleasure, or he stops reciting, I drip wax on the soft skin between his thighs, and his cock. His cock is often half hard by then, flush with need, and the heat of the wax.

And then the truly delectable part begins.

He gets up, bends over, and pulls his cheeks apart, exposing his hole. I slick the 59 beads of my rosary, and begin sliding them inside him.

He has to pray the rosary as the beads penetrate him, filling him up. If he moans in pleasure or in pain, I spank him, and he clenches around the beads, feeling their pressure and texture all the more.

When all the beads are finally inside of him, he has to pray the rosary again, only this time as I pull the beads out. His stretched hole puckering with each Our Father, his whimpers high pitched and positively _aching_ by the end, right before the last bead, right before he comes all over himself, as he gasps Hail Holy Queen.

He’s pliable and warm as he says the Rosary Prayer, his hole slick and wet and ready. So I pull the folds of my cassock aside and sink into him.

Glory, glory _hallelujah_.

 

(Yes, I'm well aware that's from “The Battle Hymn of the Republic”, and not at all Catholic.)


	168. Almost Every Argument Hannibal and I Have Had, Ever

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What it says on the tin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Originally posted here.](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/133764128993/almost-every-argument-hannibal-and-i-have-had)

**Hannibal:**  Blah blah blah psychobabble.  
**Me:**  Of course you never apologize in words. I expect that by now.   
**Hannibal:**  Blah blah blah elaborate obfuscation which sounds really poetic but boils down to flowery bullshit.   
**Me:**  . . . yeah. Okay. [Insert appropriate sass and/or elaborate metaphor.]  
**Hannibal:**  Does this really bother you, Will?   
**Me:** I don't know, Doctor Lecter. Does it bother _you_?  
**Hannibal:**  Deflection is blah blah blah psychobabble.  
**Me:**  I am going to blow you now to keep you from continuing this painfully awkward conversation where you are trying to admit you did something wrong without admitting you did something wrong. It's okay. I will let my lack of gag reflex communicate how much I still love you.


	169. Another Thing Altogether

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hey Will, how do you deal with the nerves of a new relationship? (or rather, how did you and Hannibal overcome the "New Relationship jitters" ? )

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOC: Some descriptions of trauma and rape recovery, particularly things to do with medications and side effects, and some descriptions of coping-but-not.
> 
>  
> 
> [Originally posted here.](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/133898942523/hey-will-how-do-you-deal-with-the-nerves-of-a-new)

> **Hey Will, how do you deal with the nerves of a new relationship? (or rather, how did you and Hannibal overcome the "New Relationship jitters" ? )**

 

Well, that’s one hell of a question.

Hannibal and I got together, officially, on October 17th, 2013.

[Two days earlier, Hannibal nearly got himself killed.](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/94364846593/how-did-hannibal-first-seduce-you-or-perhaps-you) So after mulling over that, my reaction was, naturally, to show up at Hannibal’s house at 6 in the morning. I proceeded to kiss and fuck him silly, and vice versa, and we came to the conclusion that maybe there was some kind of -- dare I say? --  mutual attraction.

By the time New Year’s came around, Hannibal and I had [already vacationed together](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/94173946258/what-is-you-favorite-dirty-fantasy-hannibal-had). I spent maybe half my weeknights at Hannibal’s house, and we often spent our weekends at my house.

There was no time for jitters. Only the hurtling madness and fury of our relationship: our lives, our personalities, blurring together.

Some might say that such complete and swift collapse of ego boundaries is “magical”. You attain the state of love they speak about in poetry, in songs, and in books: that place where you are not separate from your beloved, but you’re merged. You’re one. You’re not alone.

I don’t think that it’s magical so much as a form of psychosis. That kind of closeness can destroy a person, and sometimes, sometimes, I yearned for such space and separateness just so I could remember who I was. I went to the woods, I went fishing, I had some weekends to myself. Sometimes it worked. Still, I always felt something: a hook in my gut, and a long line, ever pulling and connecting me to Hannibal.

But that was then.

That was before Frank, before he -- [assaulted](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/121109232108/sweetness-after-grief) me, [before he sliced my face up](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/121935682378/and-promises-april-24-timestamp) in a fit of rage and jealousy, and left me with [bloody, gaping nightmares](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/129922927098/bottomless-and-lovely-will).

Now, Hannibal and I try to remake our relationship.

I am blind in my left eye. My face is a jigsaw puzzle of flesh and scar tissue. My brain is a snarling cacophonous thing. Every day is an obstacle course. I no longer have the luxury of structuring my life around the things that give me joy, and pleasure, and a sense of accomplishment. No, my life is structured around what my therapist quaintly calls “challenges”. And questions.

Do I have the energy to do the dishes and the laundry? Will I remember to feed the dogs on time? Can I stay focused long enough to read one goddamn page of a book? Will I even sleep tonight? Which of the fucking medications I take -- for anxiety, for PTSD, for insomnia, for depression -- make me trip over myself, and which make me nauseous, and give me diarrhea? I have so many medications, and they are always changing. A merry medication merry-go-round.

And the nightmares. And the flashbacks. And the panic attacks. What will trigger me today? What will trigger me tomorrow? Yet thinking that far ahead is  _impossible_. I take time by hours, and when that is unendurable, minutes, seconds.

Most days I manage to limp along. I limp along well enough to drive, and go grocery shopping, and talk to people in public. I can even teach again, something which actually surprised me.

So I -- manage. I look mostly normal. Nobody can tell. But inwardly -- is another thing altogether.

Hannibal’s tried to reach me -- oh he has tried. He has thrown all his weight against the locked doors of my mind. He will keep trying.

Is it cruelty or love (are they different?), that I allow him to keep trying?

Jitters. Wouldn’t that be just swell.


	170. It Would Be Done

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Are there any kinks out there that you two haven't tried yet?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Originally posted here.](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/134072349298/are-there-any-kinks-out-there-that-you-two-havent)

> **Are there any kinks out there that you two haven't tried yet?**

 

For starters, I have not crapped on Hannibal. He would love it. I would not. So we’re not doing that. And neither will I let him crap on me, though it seems he would be less enthusiastic about that arrangement. 

(Also: it will be noted that there’s nothing wrong with crapping on people, as long as everyone is into that sort of activity and adequate attention is paid to hygiene, blah blah blah etc.)

I don’t do pet play, either. Hannibal has a pet, [a guy named Randall.](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/114506877783/dear-will-has-there-ever-been-anything-hannibal) I know next to nothing about that arrangement, aside from the fact that Randall is also a sexual partner of Hannibal’s. I really don’t want to know any more, because, hypocritically, [it would make me massively jealous](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/98810629383/has-hannibal-ever-been-nervous-about-anything-in).

And though Hannibal wouldn’t admit it, he would do pretty much anything I requested of him. Maybe the request wouldn’t be direct on my part; it would be done, nonetheless. I haven’t truly tested my (or his) limits on this yet.

Aside from those, well. There _was_ the incident with the eggbeater, which we don’t talk about. 


	171. What Dreams May (Not) Come

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Have you ever thought about the fact that since you fucked Margot you kinda fucked Mason too?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Originally posted here.](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/134073376783/slides-a-bottle-of-whiskey-in-wills-direction)

> ***slides a bottle of whiskey in Will's direction* Have you ever thought about the fact that since you fucked Margot you kinda fucked Mason too**?

 

First off, dear Anon: Hannibal unfortunately confiscated the whiskey. Said libation, in conjunction with [all the fantastically fun medications I am taking](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/133956487282/hey-will-how-do-you-deal-with-the-nerves-of-a-new),  _would fuck me up_ in ways which should not even be imagined. 

But, let it be noted that the gesture is appreciated, even though Hannibal is grousing while pouring it all. Down. The. Sink. 

Second: Wow. I fucked Margot? That is one of the most amazing things to learn about my prodigious sex life. Truly. I don’t know how I managed to accomplish that. But it’s good to know I finally  _lived that dream_  even though I have absolutely no memory of it and I suspect – oh wait, can confirm – [that it never happened](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/94390576843/alana-bloom-or-margot-verger). 

Alas. 

Don’t get me wrong: Margot Verger is stunning and I  _would_  fuck her in a hot second if I thought she had any interest. But, her being a lesbian kind of implies that she doesn’t want to take a roll in the hay with me. I, a guy. A man. A man with dangly bits. 

Additionally, she is now dating Alana, and they seem rather monogamous, which also puts a wrench in that scenario. Despite my own ambitious fantasies, I don’t think they’ll be asking me for a threesome any time soon. 

If it makes you feel better: since Alana is my quasi-ex, and she is now fucking Margot, in some really extended weird way I guess I have fucked Mason?

And why does everyone keep wanting me to fuck Mason Verger, or at least talk about him? I have at least two other asks about Mason Verger. I don’t even know him, aside from what Alana has told me. So he’s basically a grade A, certified asshole. 

Also, let's be honest: his name sounds like a venereal disease. 

* * *

[OOC: Don’t worry, dear readers! There’s more of Mason to come, we just have to let him weasel his way into the story a bit. ;)]


	172. Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I love this idiot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Originally posted here.](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/135890770863/have-yourself-a-merry-little-christmas)

Holiday salutations!

I hope this year finds you content and happy and in the company of those you love. If not, I hope you have a steady supply of alcohol. If not, hopefully some medications, or, access to cheap cable networks, so you can blissfully zone out and ignore the chaos exploding around you by watching chaos exploding on TV. ( _Die Hard_ is the Greatest Christmas Movie of All Time.)

Hannibal and I find ourselves alone – except for my dogs – holed up in expansive chateau Graham. We’re having an abundantly simple Christmas, which is a welcome relief [after last year’s histrionics](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/106153946393/ooc-christmas-timestamp-warnings-for). Currently I am listening to “The Messiah” on the stereo, having rescued the Christmas tree (again) from Buster being a most exuberant guard dog (again). I’m enjoying some (nonalcoholic, alas) hot buttered rum and really hoping Hannibal can hurry the hell up and join me. He’s in the kitchen (where else? he’s in there more than bloody Gordon Ramsay). He’s making a truly epic amount of dough – different doughs, actually. Earlier he was making caramels and used my blender to pulverize baking chocolate into nice little crumbs. Confectioner’s sugar galore, cinnamon, nutmeg, clove (ground and whole), lavender (????), vanilla beans, vanilla extracts, peppermint oil, peppers and salts I never even knew existed. He’s reserved oranges, lemons, and limes just for juicing and zesting. In my refrigerator, he’s arranged sticks of butter in rows, there’s enough cream cheese to constipate an elephant, bowls of different fruits, and heavy whipping cream in truly terrifying quantities. This is only just the tip of the proverbial iceberg. And I have no idea what he’s up to. I asked him, and he said he would tell me in due time. He used the tone which nonverbally communicates _I wouldn’t tell you even if you tortured me, so there’s no use even trying though it would, nonetheless, be amusing if you did._

I truly am enchanted and terrified.

I love this idiot.

And now since Buster has (again) decided the tree is a threat to the security of our little hearth and home, I have to sign off and rescue the tree (again) and worry about what Hannibal is up to (again).

Until later,

Will


	173. A Hard Day's Work

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dear Will, have you ever thought about fucking Jack?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Originally posted here.](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/135941905343/dear-will-have-you-ever-thought-about-fucking)

> **Dear Will, have you ever thought about fucking Jack? Or the other way around? Because imagine the size difference!!**
> 
>  

I have thought about it -- both being fucked by Jack and the  _potential_ for size difference. His height and weight _might_ suggest a difference. I've had enough cock at this point to say that size differences seldom have much to do with height, weight, race, or anything in particular. (Except, if I may immodestly suggest, my mouth.) But -- I did dwell on it once. Well, more than once. I saw a picture of Jack and his wife, Bella, when they were both younger and  _holy fucking shit_ cut me off a slice of that. Jack was a stunning looking man. Some days he still is, but he would yell at me if he knew I thought that. Well, all right he  _knows,_ we just don't say anything about it.

Which brings me to the incident in question, and which wasn't  _completely_ unfortunate.

The day it happened, I found myself jerking off in the bathroom at work. I was there instead of attending some incredibly disinteresting FBI meeting which made me want to dig my eyes out with spoons. It was just some bureaucratic bullshit, and the best way to avoid that is to feign some kind of bowel upset and scuttle off to the bathroom.

When I escape meetings, I often just text people. Mostly Hannibal, Abigail, or Beverly. It’s great fun to text Beverly because she usually _stays_ in the meetings I avoid. So we exchange snide commentary. Other times, I end up reading in the bathroom, generally an encyclopedia of criminal pathology or something. It’s excessively tedious, but at least it’s not the meeting. Sometimes I even grade papers or prepare class notes.

And then other times I just jerk off.

That particular afternoon I fantasized about Hannibal sucking my cock. I hadn’t been with Hannibal very long, so the fact that some of this fantasy was based on recent reality made it all the more erotic.

I began, modestly enough, with slow, short strokes. I imagined Hannibal, on his hands and knees, naked, dragging his lips and tongue lazily over my cock, sucking the tip and then rolling his tongue over the head. He licked and sucked that particular spot beneath the head which makes me quiver deliciously. As my cock thickened and hardened in my hand, the Hannibal of my imagination became much more forceful. He pushed my thighs open wide; he took my cock in his mouth and sucked hard, until I whimpered. And my thighs, _oh_ , they shuddered so as he slid down, until I was completely inside him. The feel of his throat pulsing around me, hot and wet; his hair twisted between my fingers as I fucked his mouth, enjoying the gasps he made as I thrust hard and deep. I remembered Hannibal’s face slick with tears and spit, and the way he relaxed and opened his body to me, and how I plunged into him. His tongue making insistent strokes against my cock as I pulled out. His lips, raw but still silken, drawing me back in, his cheeks hollowing, _demanding._ That’s when I pushed -- one more time -- my whole bo --

This is when Jack came in. I don’t know what he expected to find when he banged my bathroom stall open. I suppose it was some attempt, on his part, to embarrass me after figuring out that I’d ditched the meeting.

Embarrassment is not how I’d describe it. All in one moment, Jack opened the stall; I panted Hannibal’s name; and a thin, creamy stream arced through the air and splattered against my boss’s chest.

We looked at each other, and in that moment, we knew: _we shall never speak of this._

I am not sure what happened to the sweater I accidentally defiled. I’ve not seen Jack wear it again. And I’m not sure what Jack might have thought of the whole scene: one of his best agents, thighs spread wide while he stroked himself and called out his lover’s name. I did have a few moments when I wondered if Jack thought me -- let’s say -- “lacking” in terms of size. But when I dwelt on that a little more, contrasting my size to what his  _could_ be -- well. 

I have a very active imagination and my mind concocted all kinds of scenarios. And I started to believe them. How much truth these imaginary scenarios had was not even relevant. There was an hour or two when I believed Jack Crawford was hung like an elephant, and I wanted nothing more than to have him fuck me raw.  

But, personally and professionally, that way lay madness.

So I found Hannibal and he more than adequately alleviated me. 


	174. The Stuff of Life

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hannibal, what's your favorite thing to cook or bake for Will?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Originally posted here.](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/136070783763/hannibal-whats-your-favorite-thing-to-cook-or)

> **Hannibal, what's your favorite thing to cook or bake for Will?**

 

I have to interject: you asked him about _food_ and _cooking._ Well done. We’re going to be here all week.

\- Will

 

Now that my fiancé has had his strop, I can address your question @sorryfreudianslip. By the way, I do approve of your name.

I would usually answer by saying: anything I put in front of Will and which he relishes so much he says, “This is delicious.” He enjoys my cooking, but when he says those words in particular, I feel very pleased with myself, and with the fact that I gave Will such satisfaction.

However, Christmas has changed my answer.

For six months, I had been planning the most magnificent Christmas feast, the likes of which would dazzle my guests and make Will sigh those heavenly words repeatedly. But dear Will hasn’t felt . . . the same as he once did. He wanted quiet and solitude for Christmas. He said he would spend the holiday at home, with his dogs, even if I executed my plans for a Christmas feast. He didn’t say that with any spite, nor to make me feel guilty. He simply was too tired for a crowd of people. Their very presence would rend him apart. So Will resigned himself to Christmas alone.

This distressed and angered me, as you can well imagine.

I didn’t like canceling my Christmas feast. It was a little tedious, withdrawing pre-invites, putting some expensive culinary items directly into the freezer rather than on the table, and retracting orders which I’d placed a few months ago. But all the discomfort was minor, of course, next to making Will happy. When I told him that I wanted to join him at Christmas, and that I wasn’t having a feast after all, his smile very nearly stopped my heart.

This is why I was distressed and angered: I didn’t want Will to be alone on Christmas. That was such a ridiculous idea. I was also angry he thought I’d allow that at all, ever.

Yet I was at a loss as to what to cook for Christmas, and what to get Will.

One evening Will sat on my couch, wrapped in a wool blanket. He said that everything “tasted weird”.  He’s taking some very potent medications. Changing a person’s sense of taste is not an unusual side effect of these medications. Nonetheless, he said the only things he could properly taste were sweet: cookies, cake, mousses, tarts, truffles, chocolate, and things of the like. In short, he could taste desserts. I thought he might be saying that just so he could have more dessert. This is not a crime, of course; one empathizes all too well with that desire. But over the next few weeks it became transparent to me that Will was not “faking”. I began to cook sweet things. This is when I understood what I would do for Christmas, and what gift I could give Will.

Though there was a practicality to my choice, I had deeper motives as well.

Sweet as it may be, dessert is always an ending.

In a simple five course meal, your appetizer is a whisper of delight; the promise of pleasures to come. Your soup and your salad, these have a delicacy about them, a thinness; they are transitory pleasure, moving us from one place to another. The main course is robust and rich; it is the fulfillment of all the cloying promises made earlier. It makes you radiant. It puts the life in you.

How could dessert hope to compete? Dessert is but the echo of pleasures which have passed. A final delight, then no more.

This is what my dear Will craved. It makes for a meager existence.

But mythology, great poets and philosophers, and even physicists, have all said: endings are also beginnings.

I decided to repurpose dessert, and make it not just a beginning, but an entire meal unto itself. It would be the gossamer beginning, the bountiful and lavish center, and the bittersweet end.

So I served Will dessert on Christmas. This was my gift to him, and he said it was one of the best he’s ever received. From morning until evening we had nothing but dessert. It was not the shadow of a meal. It was devastatingly rich; the stuff of life. There is nothing like the heady, earthy-sharp sweetness of plum and thyme pie for breakfast. Cream twists make such a light and elegant accompaniment to opening presents, even if small dogs keep trying to eat them. Zabaglione is a creamy delight which lingers just long enough for kisses and sighs of contentment. The softness, hardness, and sweetness of the fig compote can still be enjoyed at room temperature, if one finds himself tangled up with a slender, fierce body. I particularly enjoy milk pudding with rosewater, caramel, and pears after a shower. The sticky sweetness of the caramel mixes well with the gentler sweetness of the pears and rose water. Scones with apples and white cheddar are a more solid dish, particularly when served with hot chocolate. You can take it on the couch, nestled with your beloved, and enjoy watching the afternoon sun gild the world in gold.

There are many more such as: marinated oranges, cardamom nankaties, pears in mint and tea, cranberry kisel, pomegranate sorbet parfait, whiskey and rye chocolate chip cookies . . .

Will is tapping his foot at me. He thinks I’m getting carried away.

But the most succinct answer to your query would be that I most enjoy serving my husband-to-be dessert.

Also, I must add: pure indulgence is watching him lick cream from his lips.

I will leave it up to you to decide the composition of said cream.


	175. Fierce Creature Though He Was

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dear Hannibal, will you ever give up Randall for Will since he's jealous?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Originally posted here.](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2221539/chapters/4872729)

> **Dear Hannibal, will you ever give up Randall for Will since he's jealous?**

 

You ask a very straightforward question for a very complex situation, dear Anonymous.

If Will asked, I would consider it, of course. After I’d had some time, and thought, I imagine I would terminate my relationship with Randall, as much as I care about him, and as much as I enjoy our relationship. Will rather has the effect of being able to weasel anything out of me. So if he asked, yes. I would.

But he would never ask, either. We have particular rules to our relationship, and one of them is that we do not have the right to ask that. It would be presumptuously rude to insert oneself into another’s relationship, even if your partner was involved. The only exception is that there is something dire about the situation. For example, if I thought Will’s outside partner, or partners, would do him physical harm, I am allowed to say something in order to protect him.

Dire can also mean one of us is in an emotional state that we simply cannot have outside partners. In that case, we both take a break from those relationships.

While Will [recovered from his wounds over the summer](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/124583594363/home-timestamp), I certainly didn’t see Randall. I told Randall it might be some months before I visited him, and why. He understood, of course. He also wished Will well in his recovery.

I’ve been with Randall rather tentatively over the last few months. He came to our first session as a [dire wolf](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dire_wolf) and immediately flopped at my feet. While he whined from happiness, I understood that our time apart had distressed him greatly. He mouthed my hand for nearly twenty minutes straight, and even let me rub his stomach. Though, he did bite a little before allowing it.

Near the end, we lay together on the floor. I held him. I stroked him and told him it was all right. Fierce creature though he was, with jaws made for crushing bone, he relaxed into my arms, his ferocity stowed for another occasion.  

Will would not ask me to give that up.


	176. We Survived

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hi Will! Are you still in contact with Abigail? Do you miss her?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Originally posted here.](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/136957688413/hi-will-are-you-still-in-contact-with-abigail-do)

[OOC: Whooop whooop. As always, business up top (aka, Will’s “official” answer), party on the bottom, after the middle break (the stuff Will is Not Talking About).

Hugs and kisses to @itslikecandy-butwithcannibals hope you like this! :) ]

 

* * *

 

> **Hi Will! Are you still in contact with Abigail? Do you miss her?**

 

Hi, @itslikecandy-butwithcannibals

Yes, though [Abigail and Molly left in August of last year](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/123902890368/new-lands-for-the-living), we are still in touch. At the beginning she called almost every night, and I got earfuls about high mountain plains, and how clean and cool the air was. She told me about the mountain woods and rivers she wanted to show me when I visited. She told me her hands had become coarse and calloused from working, and she liked that, and feeling strong, and full of warmth and life like the sun. She kept telling me how crazy it was to live in a small town -- a truly small town -- where pretty much everyone knows each other, and the only strangers would be seasonal ski bums and tourists. She didn’t mind that she wore sweaters in August.

But -- and this did not surprise me -- her calls tapered off, to every few nights, and then once a week, and so on. She called on Thanksgiving and Christmas, but the last call I remember was in late October. She told me the aspens had finished changing, and emailed some pictures.

When the aspens change in [the Rockies](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rocky_Mountains), people flock there to watch gold, orange, and red burn across the mountaintops while the air blows cold from morning frost and the promise of winter snows.

I know this because I was there when I was her age.

Abigail is a young woman, and like anyone her age she has much to think about and learn and do before she grows into herself. She doesn’t have time to babysit me, for instance. Not calling has very little to do with how much she cares about me -- loves me, even -- and more to do with the fact that her life, right now, is about not being rooted.

And she deserves that. After all the crap she’s had to deal with while growing up, and in more recent months, she deserves, after all, to be young.

But when she told me about the aspens changing, and how beautiful it was, I felt terribly sad. I remembered being her age and standing on what felt like the very edge of the world, and seeing the aspens in all their warm splendor, and the mountains in all the their snowy and stoney fiercity. I felt terribly sad because I would have liked to be there with her. Not to hold her hand or even put my arms around her and protect her. I just wanted to know that with her.

 

* * *

 

**July 31, 2015**

Will

“Don’t be sad. We’ll stay in touch. We’ll visit.”

“I’m not sad, I’m excited for you.”

“Liar.”

That vulpine little smile; a hunter’s smile. She would never be deceived, and this makes me gladder than I could ever say. Because she’s going out into the world, without me, without Hannibal. Albeit, with Molly, so _technically_ protected. But not even Molly could deal with some of the people Abigail will attract.

It’s in our nature, sometimes: those who are damaged draw those who would do more damage. So it’s best if she’s a hunter, if she is lean and dangerous and can leave blood in the snow -- blood that’s not hers.

“Okay, I am, by a vast majority, excited for you. But can’t I be a little bit said. A tiny bit?”

“Hmmm.”

It’s such a little thing, standing here and washing dishes together. But this moment’s also such an enormous thing. She won’t be here for months -- ever? -- making my little kitchen warm with her frankness, her barb-wire intellect. I might be drowning in meds which make me all the more maudlin, and make me want to sleep more than I’d like, but -- I am going to miss her. Miss us. The way our hips just brush, not with the former urgency, but familiarity. Two bodies with their own histories, some of which overlapped. And which will not overlap any more. Well, at least for a little while.

So yes, I can be damn sad about it.

“You can be this sad about it.”

She holds her thumb and forefinger out, soapy and pinched together.

“How about this sad.”

My fingers are at least an inch apart.

“No,” she laughs.

She nudges my fingers closer together -- a centimeter -- and then closer still.

“That is not enough!”

“Too bad.”

And she kisses my palm.

In the bedroom, there’s nothing for it. Just nestled together like two spoons. Her hair smells like sunshine, from when we went for a walk in the woods. She’s warm and solid against me, and I can just feel her heartbeat, faintly, through some vein in her stomach. This narrow band of flesh the only naked part of her to touch.

“Are you sure you’ll be okay?”

“Yes, Abigail. _Yes._ This is your choice.”

“But you and Hannibal . . .”

Her sigh is muffled as she rolls to face me.

“I should say I’m worried about you, not Hannibal. I’m surprised he let you out of his sight for a while weekend, much less let anyone spend time with you. Even me.”

“He has been a bit of a mother hen.”

“No shit.”

She smoothes her hand over my chest, and it feels oddly protective.

“I’ll be fine. I’m not a fragile little teacup.”

The way her fingers press little circles into my chest tell me she’s not convinced.

“I survived.”

I can barely even hear my own words, but she’s quiet, and still. She heard, and she’s thinking.

“I survived,” I say, louder, my fingers on her throat. The scar no-one would notice if they weren’t looking.

Her fingers, a sudden jolt of tenderness, against my own scars.

“Hey, hey, it’s just me, Will.”

She holds me around the waist with her free arm.

“It’s just me.”

Her fingers whisper over my face.

“I survived too,” she says.

She’s saying: I understand. I know. I _see_ you.

And then her lips against my own, a hot dart of tongue.

“Hey -- Will? What’s wrong?”

She doesn’t know, of course. She doesn’t know the full extent of what Frank did to me, what he did to me beyond pureeing my face. She doesn’t know that usually, the thought of even touching myself -- much less someone else touching me -- makes the air in my lungs dry up, and the whole world white around the edges.

“Nothing. You just -- startled me. That’s all.”

“I guess I’ll have to go really slow then.”

But it’s worse than that. She doesn’t know, so she doesn’t know that when she strokes me through my jeans, and kisses me -- she doesn’t know how turned on I really am. That my cock throbs against her palm not just because I want her, but because I haven’t wanted _anyone_ , haven’t felt safe with _anyone_ , not even Hannibal, and my arousal burns with guilt, which makes me want to fuck her more, and harder. Not to punish her, or myself, but because guilt and being understood are the best aphrodisiacs I’ve ever had.

And she is twenty. She is young. Even with her scar and her hunter’s heart, she is soft, and supple beneath my hands. The buttons on her blouse bouncing off the floor and walls, and she bites my lips as I slide my fingers over her and then in her. She’s young and I know that, because despite the fact she often pretends she doesn’t give a damn when we fuck, she’s still so wet, and she arches into me. She makes the same, [small keening sound she made the first time I was inside her](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/107035010664/qa-abigail-who-was-your-first-eyeballs-will). _That_ particular keening noise, when she feels my cock against her, and she wriggles her hips with wanting, because she is so young, and she has the appetite of someone who still hasn’t had her fill. She’s young and lets me move her, us, because she’s not always as sure as she pretends to be, and besides when I tilt her hips back just _so_ , I’ll slide against those nerves which make her shiver as if she has a fever. She lets me fuck her, until we’re both moaning and shaking and sweating. She lets me put my hand around her throat -- not to choke her, no, no, never, not with her -- but just to rub my thumb over her scar as I feel her ankles in the small of my back urging me deeper, as she tightens around me, as her stubby nails dig into my sides and shoulders, and then her fingers hot on my cheek, and she’s sobbing into my ear, her whole body squeezing and jerking around me, beneath me and as I come inside her, and she kisses me -- my scars -- and I lay on top of her, my fingers still grazing her scar.

Her heart booms in my ear like shotgun blasts.

As she showers and I lay on the bed, alone, drifting through equal measures of discomfort and comfort, I know this is the closest I have ever been to Abigail Hobbs. ****On the day we met, she was already a survivor; the scar on her throat is just a footnote.

But now, as she comes out of the shower wrapped in a towel, I can’t resist tugging on the towel. I watch it unspool to the floor, and she’s in my lap, warm, sucking rings into my shoulders and _oh_ , Hannibal will _see_ those, but I don’t care. Now I arc up into her, and my nails leave marks on her back and shoulders, as I come inside her again, I know.

We survived.

In the morning, with metallic Baltimore sun glaring off the sidewalks, we finish loading the last of her things into Molly’s car.

Hannibal has smelled the sex on us -- no shower could erase that, apparently. But, more importantly, it’s probably the way Abigail touches me. Her touch is warm and open, and loving. It’s the touch of one person to another, which says: _I know. I see you._

When I touch her back, I can do the same.

When we kiss goodbye it’s nothing more than a brush of lips -- Molly and Hannibal are watching, besides, and one of them owns several guns, and the other is a serial killer, and both of them are violently protective of us. Still, that brush of lips is enough.

We’ve said what we can.

And now she is gone.

She cracked my chest open that spring we were first together, and she’s held my heart in her hands at times. But now she’s succeeded in carving a whole piece out, all her own, and devoured it while it was yet hot, quivering, and bloody.

And I too, have a whole piece of hers, which I never expected.

Usually that is more than enough, but some nights, when I see Frank-tall figures, and my reflection in the windows looks like his face and not mine, or I remember the feeling of [being pinned and helpless](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/117174825633/did-hannibal-start-seeing-someone-else-after-you), of blood in my mouth and cum on my back, and an arsenal of antidepressants and antipsychotics have failed, I have to try my hardest not to call her, and beg her to come back.


	177. Crumbs in the Bed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dear Will, are there any positions you like, but Hannibal -- not so much?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Posted here on Tumblr.](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/137061399863/dear-will-are-there-any-positions-you-like-but)

>   **Dear Will, are there any positions you like, but Hannibal -- not so much?**

 

Do I enjoy languishing in bed on a cold winter’s day, while Hannibal slowly sucks me to hardness, and then orgasm?

But of course.

There’s always things I enjoy which he doesn’t, and vice versa. So long as neither of us is actively repulsed, we do whatever we feel like and agree to at the time. It’s an ever shifting balance of give and take; it evens out after awhile, or, you just forget whose turn it is to give or take. It all becomes the same, really.

At any rate, here are three positions we’ve “disagreed” over, in some fashion.

 

**Exhibit A: Doggy**

I love doggy style (you can stow your dog jokes). I love feeling vulnerable and exposed as I lie on my elbows and knees, ass aloft, waiting for Hannibal to come and fuck me. I love having my hole teased, either with a tongue or fingers, or both. I love feeling warm fingers inside me, slicking me, opening me. And then hands pushing my thighs open wide before Hannibal presses his cock to my entrance. The burning tension of his cock pushing past that first ring of muscle, and then sliding all the way in.  
  
That’s only _some_ of the best parts.

Others include having his cock buried deep, drawn out slowly, and then rammed back into me. Of having this relentless thrusting, my hair grabbed as I’m fucked, spreading my legs wider, whimpering, begging “more” and “please” and “harder”.

A bonus is not looking at the person fucking you. This sounds callous, but it’s less about disconnecting and more about burying myself in the sensations of it all. I don’t have to _see_ \-- I can close my eyes and simply _feel_ : Hannibal’s warm breath on my shoulder; the throb of his cock as I push back against him; his capable hands on my hips, leaving marks like flower petals, marks which will be rose-red, then lavender-purple, and finally a pale buttercup yellow.

Last time Hannibal knelt. I sat in his lap while he fucked me, the tip of his cock just breaching me. He’d one firm arm around my waist, and his other hand on my throat, squeezing with each thrust.

I came, gasping, while stars fell in the edges of my vision.

I love doggy.

Hannibal does not so much.

Hannibal will fuck me within an inch of my life, doggy style. He also loves being fucked, doggy style: having me take a fistful of his beautiful silver-brown hair while I listen to him pant and moan, and feel that hot little ring at his entrance rubbing against the base of my cock.

He also likes me on my hands and knees (of course he does). But he doesn’t like the fact he can’t see my face, especially the “sunset of colors” which I apparently flush when I’m fucked and come. Even with the current state of my face, he is rather bereft if he can’t see it while we have sex. And in doggy style, He has to settle for spanking me until my ass glows red, which is a good substitute, but obviously and not entirely the same.

Recently, Hannibal put  _another_ mirror in his bedroom for the explicit purpose of watching me while he fucks me from behind. And since I close my eyes, I don’t have to see myself either. So that was resolved rather neatly.

 

**Exhibit B: Missionary**

Hannibal loves it. Of course he does.

When he’s topping, he gets to throw his beautiful hair back, flex his beautiful back and ass muscles, and think he’s a sex god.

Meanwhile, down yonder, Will Graham waits for this to be done and to get his dick sucked.

It’s not that it’s unpleasant or bad. Usually it’s just a little tedious.

The asshole is located further back than any other orifices which precede it. This means that my ass end has to bend in a nice little sideways U for missionary to work.

My hips are just fine, but even the most athletic would be a little underwhelmed by this position if they had to stay there for awhile because their lover thinks he is a sex god. (And perhaps not entirely without good reason.)

The even worse part is that I can’t read a book when I’m bottoming in missionary position.

It _would_ help pass the time.

 

**Exhibit C:**

The last position is the real stickler, the one which we have active disputes over.

You won’t find this position in any _Joys of Gay Sex_ or _Gay Kama Sutras,_ nor in porn or anything of that ilk. Nope. This pose is something which I “invented”, but, as you shall see, is really rather common.

I call this position “Crumbs in the Bed”.

That is, I bring food to bed, and Hannibal has an aneurysm.

It’s no secret -- I take medications for trauma. Some of these medications make me hungry at night. It actually helps to eat right before bed.

Usually I wouldn’t take food to bed because it is a little slovenly. It all began when Hannibal baked some double chocolate almond butter cookies. They were _delicious._ So I ate six. And maybe I took a couple more and snuck them into the pocket of my pajama bottoms. And maybe I was trying to covertly eat cookies in Hannibal’s own bed while he was sitting right next to me, reading. And maybe he looked at me like I was this noisy, mangy, crotch-licking little mutt he’d let in from the street. And maybe I swallowed loudly for dramatic effect and said: “These are delicious.”

It placated Hannibal for that night.

The next night I brought some cookies and milk to bed. Hannibal’s lip twitched when he saw the food, but he said nothing. We tucked into bed, and turned the lights out, and said good-night.

Hannibal woke me up in the morning by yanking me out of bed. I was half asleep as he bent me over the side of the bed, ass out, and yanked my pajama bottoms off.

“Hannibal,” I grumbled. “If you wanted to fuck me --”

_SHTHIP!_

To say I was awake would be like saying “Mars sure is red”.

Just like my ass was that morning, after Hannibal finished spanking me.

I can’t stand the delicious sting of a belt as it strikes me. Not at all. There’s something which is deceptively soft, even gentle about it. Oh yes, the first few blows don’t hurt that much. But keep piling them on, one on top of the other, and the stings become a full out throbbing burn. The kind which makes me clutch the bed sheets, and press back into each blow.The kind which makes me sob -- from utterly pleasurable pain.

Hannibal told me not to come, so I didn’t, though I ached to. And I could sit afterwards, which was thoughtful of him, but I’d a hell of a time with it. Especially since we went to a fancy dinner party that night, where I sat in a suit for god knows how many hours.

But you see my predicament. Cookies + bed = spanking.

This is why I love “Crumbs in the Bed”.

I think Hannibal does too, but he wouldn’t admit it.


	178. Pig in a Blanket

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> mason did say he had taken an aesthetic interest in will since the first time he laid eyes on him. wonder what will thinks of that?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Posted here on Tumblr.](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/137433545688/mason-did-say-he-had-taken-an-aesthetic-interest)

> **mason did say he had taken an aesthetic interest in will since the first time he laid eyes on him. wonder what will thinks of that?**

 

* * *

 

[OOC: Oh my god, writing Mason was so fun! There is more of him to come.

Some mentions about being triggered and panic attacks.

The top part is Will’s “official” answer, and the very short section thereafter some information he withheld.]

 

* * *

 

I think mostly two things:

1) Mason is deranged.

2) I was -- charmed? -- by Mason’s admission.

On the first point: there’s no accounting for taste. Hannibal finds Mason’s taste bombastic (as if his isn’t), but Mason, as ostentatious and -- interesting -- as he is, is still deranged. A tolerable and humorous deranged which disrupts the maddeningly polite.

On the second point: well.

My therapist firmly believes that my admission shows that my sexual predilections are surfacing to their full extent, and thus the medications and therapy are speeding along my recovery accordingly.

She’s full of shit, of course. I’ve no such designs on Mason. I just find him fascinating and -- funny.

And all right, he has eminently kissable lips, but that’s not tantamount to anything.

I met Mason at a dinner party which Hannibal and I attended. It was _supposed_ to be a polite and very small gathering of some swanky Baltimore folk. There was only supposed to be half a dozen people. So it was a chance for me to socialize, and hopefully not have some kind of episode. Hannibal and I have tried going out before, and each time it’s mostly ended in me being triggered, and then me spending the evening doped up on tranquilizers, hating my life and myself. Hannibal tries to help, but there’s not much he can do for me, outside of what he already does: cooking comfort foods which he has to force into me, holding me, telling me it will be okay. We both wish that wasn’t a lie.

Sorry. I meant to give background information, not be a depressing, depressed bastard.

At any rate, this dinner party turned out to be about fifty swanky people, all of them dressed spotlessly in suits and shimmering dresses, drenched in enough perfume and cologne I almost started panicking from the _idea_ alone. Scents have a tendency to trigger me, particularly certain colognes or aftershaves. So I mostly stayed in the corner and drank soda water, wanting to lie down and die.

Hannibal asked me if I was all right no less than sixteen times. Of course I _told_ him I was, despite the nausea I felt. But I _wanted_ him to enjoy the party. I wanted him to have that and not have me -- ruin -- it. And I liked watching him swan through the crowds, beautiful and proud as a peacock. My handsome, elegant Hannibal.

He glanced over at me more times than I’d like; I think he wished I could be with him. He used to show me off at these kinds of parties, and I _loved_ it. It was the only part I really enjoyed about those things: fawning and being the object of desire for an entire room of people. But that was, of course, before my face got pureed. Now, people politely try to converse with me without looking at me, and adamantly avoid asking anything about my face at all. There is no fawning, and I am not at all desirable. I am to Hannibal, but his love alone can’t resurrect my former good looks.

So there was Mason.

I finished my soda water, and I couldn’t just stand around rolling an empty glass in my palms while waiting for something horrible to happen. So I made a solo trip to the drink table. I told myself if I kept my head down, no-one would try to talk to me.

I told myself that even as a pig was thrust into my face. A real, live pig.

“Oh, Pavlov, who have you _found_ here?”

I pulled away enough to see that the pig was cradled by a man. He’d a cherubic face, and those eminently kissable lips I’ve mentioned. And blond hair. Such ridiculous hair. It had the pretense of grooming which had utterly failed and so plumed wildly, not unlike a sea anemone.

And that pig. I’m to say I was so taken aback, and then absorbed in the black, black irony of an actual pig in a blanket, that the first thing I said was:

“Is that -- a pig?”

“How _very_ observant of you. This is Pavlov. Say _hellooo_ , Pavlov.”

The pig snorted at me.

“How did you --? How did they let you bring a pig to a dinner party?”

“Yes, _well_ ,” he gestured into the crowds “My sister said I could _bring_ him if I _behaved_ myself. She keeps me under _lock_ and _key._ You may _have_ heard of her. Margot Verger?”

“Yes, she’s uh, dating my ex.”

“How _terribly_ awkward. She’s also the _heir_ to the Verger Meatpacking Industry.”

“You’re -- Mason.”

He did a little bow. “At your _service._ And who might _you_ be?”

He was looking right at my face, peering at my scars with such interest I just -- stared right back at him.

“Well, whoever you are, those scars are _exquisite_. There is such a _poetry_ of _violence_ writ in them.”

With his free hand, he reach for my face.

I jerked back, more in shock than anything else.

“I’m. Uhm. Graham. Will Graham.”

“ _Well_ , Graham Will Graham, however did you _come_ by those scars?”

I have no idea what he anticipated. I had no idea what I would say, until I said it.

“I -- fell.”

The stupidest, possibly most macabre thing I could say. I thought he was going to be appalled. Yes, a man who brought an actual pig in a blanket to a dinner party would be appalled.

There’s just no accounting for taste.

He laughed, very loudly, head thrown back. And I found I wasn’t completely ashamed of who I’d become in the last year.

We were called to dinner soon after. Before Hannibal could sweep by and grab me, Mason took my elbow, and said: “Well, Mr. Graham Will Graham, won’t _you_ and that lovely _mug_ of yours sit next to _me_ and Pavlov?”

I didn’t say yes exactly, but I did sit with him. Hannibal bristled at that, but I think he was glad enough to see me socializing _at all_ that he somehow contained his jealousy. He did eyeball me worriedly across the table several times, and I mouthed that it was okay.

And it was. Well, "okay" is relative. Especially since Mason and I spent most of the evening telling morbid jokes and stories, laughing our way through dinner. We created such a ruckus we _almost_ had to be sent away from the table. (And here Hannibal eyeballed me all the more, with alarm, displeasure, and exasperation.)

But it was good. When I got back home, to Hannibal’s, I fell into a deep, long sleep and didn’t wake until morning. I didn’t even have to take any sleeping pills.

So I’d say it went well. Obviously I have to recant my earlier statements about Mason [being a grade A asshole](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/134073376783/slides-a-bottle-of-whiskey-in-wills-direction). He’s probably just a grade A weasel most of the time.

 

* * *

 

**A Missing Morsel of the Truth**

“The bacon _wrapped_ chicken is a _delight_ ,” Mason said.

And it was -- succulent and crisp in all the right measure, with ricotta and spinach. As I ate, I watched Mason feed Pavlov teaspoons of creamed spinach from his plate.

I waited until no one else was looking or listening close enough to pay any heed.

“I’ve an awful idea,” I said.

“What’s that, Mr. Graham Will Graham?”

I broke off a morsel of the bacon wrapped chicken and waved it in front of Pavlov’s snout. The little pig devoured it greedily -- bacon, chicken, and all -- making soft happy grunts.

“Mr. Graham, you are _awful,_ ” Mason laughed, stroking Pavlov. “I think I _quite_ like _you_.”

The feeling was mutual, though, I didn’t say as much. Instead we sank into the warm comfort of companionship and small, shared secrets.


	179. Stasis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So Hannibal, What do you do when you miss Will and need something to take your mind off of it?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Originally posted here.](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/139308566303/so-hannibal-what-do-you-do-when-you-miss-will-and)

>   **So Hannibal, What do you do when you miss Will and need something to take your mind off of it? (Aside from the obvious >_>) Also do you get jealous of Will's fans here wanting to know such intimate details about his life and yours?**

 

I will assume from your little emoticon that “the obvious” implies sexual activities of some kind. Rest assured; that is obviously not the only way to endure and enjoy.

I don’t take my mind off it at all. There is no remedy when someone you want, or need, is absent.

When someone you care for dies, they leave a strange space in your life. It used to be full of them, but now it is not. It’s as though someone came through and tipped a wine glass over. Instead of wine, a whole life, a whole person, was spilt, and then gone. Sometimes you wonder if that person ever actually existed; it is a bizarre miracle that you met them at all, and that you knew what filled the glass.

When Will is away, I carry his space with me. I know he is coming back, but one can never be completely certain. I hope that he comes back, and that the Will-shaped-space shall be full again. Until then I am held in painful stasis.

I can hardly bear it, but Will insists on separateness to a degree, and so I must. I’m hoping some of this can diminish in the coming months as we navigate the social, legal, and formal waters of getting married.

But I do not take my mind off it. If I did, I would not be living in the present. I would only be clinging to the past, and to the last time I saw Will. Though I cherish all my memories of him, I am more interested in when he comes back. I am more interested in seeing the particular color of his hair in February versus the color it was in December. I am more interested in studying the silvering spiderweb of scars on his face, than remembering how it was before. Of course I will always remember his beautiful face in all its iterations. But the scars lend such a phosphorescent beauty to him.

I’m wholly captivated by the smell of him: after he’s showered, or when he’s been rolling around with his dogs, or fishing, or when he’s been in the kitchen with me, or, as he has these past months, saturated with medications. Underneath all this, he smells like cheap aftershave, and warm, musky loam. He doesn’t smell like home. He smells like _coming_ home. There is a great deal of difference. One stays put, while the other enters into the world, expanding ever outwards, and looking forwards. One remains in stasis and alone; the other is with all the world and can never know loneliness.

Recently I was in Italy. I went on a trip without Will. He was not feeling well. I thought it might be a waste to not use the tickets, which I’d already purchased. But the whole time Will was simply . . . not there. The Will shaped space did not fill up, no matter how much I wanted it too. The arches and vaults of Palermo’s cathedral, the intimidating columns of Rome’s Colosseum, the cobbled streets and coral roofs of Florence, and vivid halls of the Uffizi gallery, all echoed with Will’s absence. I would not eat gelato with him as we meandered through Palatine Hill. I would not see his radiant smile as we looked at _La Primavera_. I wouldn’t take him on a tour through the catacombs of the Palermo cathedral, nor kiss him in the dark, unknown places between the torchlights.

Suffice to say it was a miserable trip and I returned early, though it incurred some heavy penalties from the airline, and from a few pre-booked hotels.

As for your second question: I was rather upset with Will for starting this blog, [ at least at first ](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/94130413093/the-truth-and-all-its-consequences). But this blog gives him happiness, and it’s such a comforting distraction after the incident with Mr. Dolarhyde last spring. So I won’t deny him this small pleasure, even if it is irritatingly intrusive at times.

Besides, Will has always been a bit of an exhibitionist. This blog obviously nurtures that impulse. And I do enjoy that side of him as well.  


	180. Abide by It

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What do you do when/if Will has Bad Days?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Crossposted on Tumblr](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/139310714998/hello-hannibal-if-you-dont-mind-me-asking-what).

[OOC: Hannibal started answering this, but Will was a little shit and cut in.]

 

* * *

 

> **Hello Hannibal! If you don't mind me asking, what do you do when/if Will has Bad Days?**

 

Hannibal: Hello, Anonymous. Most of the time, when Will has a bad day, my presence is simply unwanted. If he is at my house, I let him retreat to a guest room and leave him food. Usually soups and applesauce. Comfort foods, you could say.

Will: Foods you can eat with a plastic spoon, you could say.

Hannibal: Yes, you could.

[Pause.]

Hannibal: Sometimes we’re at his home in Wolf Trap. I sit in one of Will’s easy chairs, by the fire. Will stays on the bed, huddling under dogs and blankets. I’ll make him soup. Or leave, if I believe he won’t come to harm. But in any case, my presence is neither called for or required. I must confess I find myself at a loss. It seems like there is very little, or nothing, that I can do for Will. And yet --

Will: Here we go.

Hannibal: -- _and yet._ He has struck up this very . . . peculiar relationship with Mason Verger which seems to . . . help. More than I would have anticipated.

Will: Mason and I are not fucking.

Hannibal: You’ve told me as much, but that only makes your relationship all the more peculiar. It’s very hard to know where you stand with Mr. Verger. Who you are to him, and who he is to you.

Will: This isn’t therapy, Doctor.

[Pause.]

Will: I’ve told you. Mason and I have an arrangement -- not unlike your arrangement with Randall Tier, if I recall.

Hannibal: Randall doesn’t leave me with bruises which have a four inch circumference.

Will: Yeah, well, you and Randall have a different arrangement, don’t you?

[Pause.]

Will: It’s nothing you and I haven’t done from time to time, kink wise.

Hannibal: I don’t understand, Will. If it’s nothing you and I haven’t done, then why won’t you do it with me?

Will: Because I want to come home to you after.

[Silence.]

Will: I also do it with Mason because you have a safeword.

[Pause.]

Hannibal: That is an enormous risk, even for you.

Will: Hey, you should see the other guy after one of our sessions.

Hannibal: Will, I am simply concerned for you and your wellbeing.

Will: I know. And I’m telling you: it’s fine. I’m fine. Mason’s crazier than a bag of ferrets, but he’s fine. No harm will come to me. We know what we’re doing.

Hannibal: I will disagree but if that’s what you insist --

Will: Oh, it is, Hannibal. That is exactly what I insist.

Hannibal: Then I will -- abide by it. Of course.


	181. Woozy with Companionship

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> .... is there anyone you wouldn't fuck? Say.... Mason Verger?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Crossposted on Tumblr](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/139311994513/so-youve-talked-about-fucking-a-lot-of-people).

> **So... you've talked about fucking a lot of people here (kudos) but I'm curious... is there anyone you wouldn't fuck? Say.... Mason Verger?**

 

No, which is almost unfortunate. He certainly isn’t _bad_ looking by my standards. And those plush lips of his are mighty tempting. I told him once that they were made for sucking cock. Mason laughed until he cried, and ended up on the floor laughing and crying and slapping the floor.

He’s also nice enough for a total Looney Tune. He visits me often and brings bacon, sometimes sausage for the dogs. We have rather interesting conversations by the fireside some nights. Other times we’ve ventured outside, wrapped in blankets and coats, so we could sit on my porch and look at the moon, all the while woozy with whiskey and conversation and companionship. I could kiss his plush made-for-cock lips until my own fell off. We have established a kind of kinky relationship, without any sex, which fulfills both our needs. But anything beyond what we have right now, anything more carnal -- I feel shockingly indifferent about.

So I suppose that is an answer for the time being.

Also of consideration: Mason identifies as asexual and doesn’t have strong feelings about sex at all, but I feel it would be an imposition, at best, to try and get into bed with him. I think he appreciates that I’m not trying to “fix” him.


	182. Sun and Moon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I need them both.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Crossposted on Tumblr.](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/140109052003/sun-and-moon-timestamp)

[OOC: Top half (morning) is an “official” post, bottom half (evening) is not.]

 

**February 27, 2016** **  
**

_Morning_

 

I wish I could say I had exciting sexploits to report to you, fair and wondrous Readers, but, in a word: nope.

What I do have is madness shared by, well, everyone, and it’s (mostly) my fault.

Two years ago, when Hannibal and I were still romping about in our suck-mark marked fucked-out honeymoon phase, we went to a Baltimore City AIDs Project charity dinner. It was nice enough -- if you want experience the joys of food poisoning. Hannibal and I escaped relatively unscathed -- and it helped that we tiptoed off to the bathrooms and he fucked me against the wall of the back stall.

But I don’t think I’ve ever seen Hannibal sadder about food.

Saying he loves food is like saying that we are a bit small in the universe. (You have to use a very droll English voice to say it too.) So when he’s disappointed in food, there might as well be a solar eclipse. To say he is sad about it, however -- the end times may well be nigh. At any rate, he stared very mournfully at his bowl of spaghetti, including the crunchy over-cooked noodles, the meatballs that would have been put to great use plugging holes in the walls, and cheese, burnt and crisp and greasy and entirely as unnecessary and unwelcome as the hard little bricks which constituted garlic bread. Don’t ask me about the salad. Or dessert. (Unless, of course, you mean when I ate Hannibal out prior to the dinner, or when he sucked me senseless afterwards.)

He ate it all, of course, every last crumb. It would have been rude otherwise. But he honestly cried about it.

Me? I ate it all even though it was pretty bad. I was hungry. Riding Hannibal until he’s flush and moaning will do that to you.

At any rate, though it was two years ago, Hannibal never forgets a meal, even if it is positively dreadful. Maybe particularly then.

So, this year, having gotten back together with yours truly and found his footing in life again, Hannibal is now ready to be the force of pomp and circumstance he always loves being.

And of course this means him donating about a bazillion dollars to BCAP, buying all the ingredients for a charity dinner, and cooking it all himself.

Which means yours truly must in some capacity participate, because when you’re with someone and asked them to marry you, then you should be useful, at least.

So there I will be, in a bow-tie, no less (Hannibal said it will add to the ambiance) playing host to Old White Gays with Money.

But no, it gets _better_.

I was telling Alana about Hannibal and his little rescue mission, and she told Margot, and suddenly the Verger family has contributed a bazillion bazillion to BCAP, and Alana and Margot will be there. Probably making out to spite the Old White Gays with Money.

Mason, being a Verger, heard too, so he contributed about half a bazillion more of his own money. He threw in some pork for good measure. This made Hannibal stupidly happy, and went a long way towards making Hannibal actually like Mason.

Mason is also coming, of course, and he says he has “just the most _delicious_ ice cream white _suit_ to wear”. He’s bringing his pet pig Pavlov, and I imagine the little pig will be sporting a bow-tie as well. (As Mason said to me: “Little Pavlov can match _you_.”)

And finally, there is Beverly and company. And company being two of our work colleagues, Price and Zeller. They process crime scenes and collect and analyze evidence. Zeller has the hots for Price but doesn’t know it; Price has hots for Zeller and knows it; and Beverly has been playing matchmaker for a few months. So this is yet another attempt of hers to get them together. I’ve warned her that once they get together that means sex on the slabs where we dissect bodies. (I mean, it’s not like Hannibal have done that once. Twice. Okay at least a dozen times.) Beverly responds with a shrug, saying: “How is that my problem? They can clean up after themselves.”

She has a point, of course.

So this will be my life for about five hours next Saturday night, from prep to hosting to cleaning up.

Thank goodness I know the bartender, Billy, because -- surprise! -- I had sex with him once, in the back alley of the same place the charity dinner is being held. This was before the building was owned by Old White Gays with Money, and was, instead, a nice little nightclub.

But who knew my prodigious oral skills would mean a steady supply of Jack Daniels, nearly a decade later.

If Hannibal says yes, I think it’s likely we’ll take Billy home and I’ll be sandwich filling.

So maybe, just maybe, this whole social outing where nearly everyone in my life shows up with fifty other people to crowd me and suck up my personal space might be worth it. I mean, it’s not like it was only a few months ago that being in a crowd would give me a panic attack, much less playing host to a bunch of strangers who will undoubtedly oogle my scars.

But, it will be all right.

 

* * *

 

**February 27, 2016**

_Evening_

 

I never thought shoe licking would appeal, but then, I never thought I’d have this type of relationship.

The leather tastes like sweet cigars, vanilla, and honey.

“Are you _done_?”

A tug at my hair.

“Uhm-hm.” I sound small, because I want to be. I want to be soft, childish.

For awhile I sit between his legs, leaning into the chair and his thigh. The crook of his knee is tender and he actually shivers when I nuzzle him there. I can tell by the fingers in his hair, pulling harder, harder on my hair -- he wants more. More play, that is, probably the dragon-tail. But softness and fragility are all I have right now. No steel, no blood, no bone. No bite.

“What’s wrong, Pet?” he brushes curls from my face.

I tell him about the dinner, and how people will look at me, and how I’m frightened.

He laughs, the sound reverberating through my ribcage, and its raucousness is reassuring.

“Fuck _them_. None one cares what _idiots_ like that _think_. You’re _beautiful_ , Pet. Let them get a _good, looong_ look at you.”

I can only whimper and crawl right into his lap, his clothes warm and sleek against my skin. A few quick kisses and then I bury my face in his ivory throat, where I can breathe the smell of his aftershave -- that orange peel with hints of lavender smell which is him.

Is it cheating, kissing him and then curling in his lap so he can pet me? Is it cheating when I let him whip me and cane me, tell me what a good little mongoose I am for bearing his blows? Is it cheating when he chokes me and I nearly pass out? Or when he uses the knife, the blade just dancing over my skin?

Even though Hannibal agreed, and Mason and I have our limits -- for now -- I’m not even sure. It _feels_ like cheating sometimes -- the intensity of it, the sweet newness of it. 

I’m not sure anymore. It all blurs together; Hannibal, Mason, Mason, Hannibal. One I come home to, the other I escape to, and I need both, just like the earth needs the Sun and the Moon in order to remain in the exact, sweet spot that life is not just possible, but can thrive.

I need them both.


	183. A Good Party

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dear Hannibal and Will, what's your definition of a good party?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Originally posted here.](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/140588129033/dear-hannibal-and-will-whats-your-definition-of)

> **Dear Hannibal and Will, what's your definition of a good party?**

 

Well, it’s not watching the game on Superbowl Sunday (I do that with my friend, Beverly, and, this year, Beverly, Alana, Margot, and Mason. It’s fortunate Mason has a lot of money through his family, because otherwise breaking Beverly’s TV would have been quite expensive. He also preferred the Broncos because “they have a _fabulous_ [murdering demonic mustang](http://www.slate.com/blogs/atlas_obscura/2014/03/17/the_blue_mustang_is_part_of_several_conspiracy_theories_centered_on_denver.html) as their mascot”, though everyone else was rooting for the Panthers because the Ravens were obviously not playing this year. But I digress).

At any rate, since we do not Superbowl together, and since I generally loathe Hannibal’s swank society dinners, and since Hannibal and I agreed to bypass the usual “at home parties” like birthdays and holidays (though, Hannibal loves, adores and cherishes Christmas, and I’ve never seen my house more decadent during the Christmas season than after Hannibal has blown through, and, like a hurricane, torn up my entire house and left it full of Christmas pomp and cheer in the form of lights, ribbons, tinsel, and a bedecked Christmas tree with ornaments that Buster will surely try to swallow. Hannibal also adores Thanksgiving, but, again, I digress) -- since we basically agreed to nix the other forms of festivities, what we have left are Hannibal’s orgies.

Yes, orgies.

Hannibal has hosted kinky dungeon parties at his house -- which I quite enjoy, mostly because I can be tied up and paddled by perfectly nice strangers. But he also has out and out orgies, wherein he basically invites his high society friends to a giant fuckfest, complete with very swank bowls of condoms, gloves, and dental dams (Hannibal is a medical doctor, after all, and he would prefer there be a minimum of bodily fluids on anything in the house. How that is possible, I do not know, since he lays protective covering on everything).

At these fuckfests, I have been known to be a general, well, whore. I do like being passed around and having people take turns on me: fucking me deep and hard while grabbing fistfuls of my hair; sucking me until I burn with the need to come; fingering and licking me until I whimper and beg for more fingers, or a thick cock, or the hard ridges of a dildo; allowing me to suck, and languishing in the feel of someone coming on my tongue, their dick and veins throbbing through the condom; or allowing me to lick and lap and suck, greedy, until they come bucking and moaning and sweating while their cunt shudders. And do I love fucking, almost as much as I like being fucked: sliding my cock into a hot hole and enjoying the texture and slickness and the moans I can get out of another person. Or using my fingers to spread another open so they writhe and clench and whimper in pleasure.

But I do, I do digress.

As much as I do like joining the orgy, and as much as Hannibal enjoys joining the orgy, for the few time he has done so, when Hannibal and I talked about this ask, we agreed that the best thing, the very best thing about his orgies was watching.

There’s such a lovely, lethal pleasure in watching. Seeing all of Hannibal’s swank high society friends slowly disrobe while they chat and make arrangements, and then flitter, moth-like, to separate parts of the house, claiming furniture and guest beds and floor space for their carnal adventures. Seeing what new couples arise, what threesomes and foursomes and beyondsomes, even. Examining how the new pairings work together, or don’t, how multiple people maneuver and discover each other, or simply sit and watch. And how people come -- what triggers that one moment, which makes people, even strangers or folk I would otherwise be annoyed by, phosphorescently red and haloed by pleasure. Ay, yes. There’s the rub of happy bodies.

Hannibal sees some things differently, I think. I allow myself to be drenched in emotions, while Hannibal allows his mind to collect and catalogue information -- sights, and scents, and sounds -- which he examines later. He keeps some things in that vast memory palace of his, things he considers useful, or even just entertaining and amusing.

At any rate, once everyone has gone, and the hired cleaners have entered in the wee hours of the morning to scoop coverings off the beds and furniture, and Hannibal and I have gone upstairs to sit by the fireplace in his bedroom, we drink wine and discuss what we saw.

It must be peculiar, I think, to have two fully clothed men, in fine slacks and suit jackets, watching the festivities of an orgy with a mostly impartial, though interested, eye. And it must be equally peculiar to have those same two men sitting cross legged across from one another while they talk about people fucking and coming. Discussing who in the orgy was cheating on whom, who wanted to cheat. Who knew they were being cheated on. Who was unsatisfied in their marriage and who wasn’t. Who had the deepest regrets and who was too vacuous to have any. Etc. It’s fun. It’s like playing with dolls almost, only instead of making up hopes and aspirations and motives, we have real emotions to work with.

Hannibal is good at keeping emotional distance, while I couldn’t if I wanted to. But at an orgy, this is an advantage. You can’t keep emotional distance with all those bodies and personalities jostling and joining. I’m used to it. I’ve built up resistance. Hannibal is not. So he is more . . . fragile. Delicate.  

And this is where I find satisfaction in watching. Watching the heat rise in Hannibal’s throat and face while we talk, until he’s loosening buttons on his shirt. Watching him slowly, inexorably, become undone himself -- his breathing sped up just a little, and the way he fidgets when he’s getting aroused -- while I describe what I observed and how I interpret it. I don’t have to raise my voice. I don’t even have to touch him. I just have to talk, in my soft, velvet-and-steel voice, and watch him itch, tense -- want. He begins to rub himself through his slacks. I sit with my wine and I watch him. We never break eye contact as he presses and squeezes himself through his clothes, and after some moments -- after I’ve told him to come -- he does. His whole body finally loosening before he pools back into his chair.

“Good boy,” I tell him, rising up. I plant kisses on his feverish brow, and stroke his blond and gray hair, and whisper how I love him.

That, dear anon, is our idea of a good party.


	184. Unwinding on the Weekends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How do you and Hannibal like to unwind on the weekends?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Cross-posted here.](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/140832856008/how-do-you-and-hannibal-like-to-unwind-on-the)

_Will_

Well, that’s answered easily enough.

Hannibal dons some impeccable slacks and dress shirt, before proceeding to drunkenly cook his way through the day, all while listening to Bach at levels which make his neighbor’s ears bleed, and is probably the reason Hannibal’s neighborhood now has a noise ordinance in effect.

“You exaggerate,” Hannibal sniffs as he stops to read over my shoulder.

Oh, but I do. He doesn’t _begin_ drunk on a Saturday. He just arrives there, one bottle of expensive wine at a time. What else are you going to do with your $ 2,000 bottles of wine but chug a few while you’re preparing another pretentious dinner? Certainly you’re not going to uncork one of those bottles and bathe your gorgeously handsome fiance in it, solely so you can suck $ 2,000 wine off his nipples.

Who does that, honestly.

 

_Hannibal_

As for good Will, when he is not making up rather fanciful stories about me in his blog, he unwinds on the weekends by being up to his armpits in wet dog.

Will is such an attentive dog owner that he insists on regularly bathing his animals. I don’t disapprove of this weekend ritual. Clean animals make for a clean house as well. But it is always a sight to see Will sodden with suds and clumps of wet dog fur, while  his entire family of strays dances around him. I have to admit his curls cling becomingly to his forehead. I also enjoy the way he smiles with his dogs; he is so very unguarded.

Also for consideration: after washing the dogs, good Will so often requires washing himself. Sometimes I will admit I have assisted in that most arduous task. As I am so often drunk, it makes things all the more amusing.

 

_Will_

I leave for a few minutes to check on Buster and Hannibal decides to add his two cents, which, fair enough. What he wrote isn’t _wrong._ Technically.

But since we are on the subject of bathing, it is one activity we do together to unwind on the weekends. Hannibal definitely loves it more than I do, despite the fact that I’m usually the one being, well, _pampered._

This is perhaps more embarrassing than I would _like_ to admit, generally speaking. But this bathing routine involves a tub full of steaming water, soap, and me. The tub could be mine, or Hannibal’s; it doesn’t matter. Sometimes Hannibal adds candles to the mix because he’s like that. It doesn’t make any difference to me. I get to lie in the bathtub while Hannibal sits outside of the tub and does the most sensuous and lewd things to me.

Namely, washing my hair.

He _loves_ washing my hair. I wish I _were_ exaggerating when I said he fairly bites back moans as he lathers, or that his sighs as he lightly runs his nails over my scalp were _purely_ sighs, rather than _aching_ and _longing_ sighs. Or that he didn’t hum parts of Vivaldi’s [ “Gloria”](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RMHguvZPcqQ) as he rinses my hair. But I think his favorite part is drying my hair. He never fails to press his nose to my freshly dried curls and inhale like it’s the last time he’ll ever have my scent.

 


	185. Iffy Boundaries

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> are will and hannibal into exhibitionism? public humiliation?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Originally posted here.](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/140927519593/are-will-and-hannibal-into-exhibitionism-public)

> **are will and hannibal into exhibitionism? public humiliation?**

 

That sound you hear is of Hannibal’s disapproval. If disapproval could sound like a nuclear bomb detonating, mushroom cloud and all, that indeed would be his disapproval. 

Despite all our depravities, and the iffy boundaries Hannibal and I have, kink-wise, Hannibal could never abide exhibitionism or public humiliation. He is all about consent, and, in the case of public humiliation or exhibitionism, that would be violating the consent of people who are not actively part of the scene, but still have to watch it. They did not sign up for that, so making them watch is more than a little vile, frankly speaking. No, if I want to lick Hannibal’s boot and grovel, and vice versa, we do it at home or in the dungeon we have membership to. 

We both agree on this, so there’s no point in rehashing my point of view here. 

But, Hannibal and I have iffy boundaries. And sometimes -- well. 

Sometimes we go to the mall. Neither of us is big on shopping, except in very particular contexts, so we  _ pretend _ to shop -- browsing through the sticky sweetness of stores stuffed with bath gel, soaps, shampoos, and anything that could basically smell like sparkles and fake flowers; gliding through the trendy little clothing stores drenched in cheap cologne; and making our way through the expanses of various department stores from accessories and luggage all the way up to formal wear. Sometimes we window shop lingerie and Hannibal makes a mental note of what he’s going to order for himself next. 

Throughout this, Hannibal has a small remote in his pocket. This remote, which is wireless, controls the vibrating butt plug I wear. 

Let’s say I am passing by a rack of sweaters and I knock one on the ground, just to be a brat. Hannibal dials up the plug and soon there’s pleasurable vibrations. Let’s say I pout at Hannibal when he won’t buy me something. He changes the speed from a pleasant little buzz to a throbbing surge, followed by valleys of low humming. And let’s say I decide to whisper things in his ear, like how much I want to suck his dick when he’s wearing some sleek stockings and garter belt. That will earn me not only a dialing up, but a sitting down, so that the plug rubs firmly against my prostate while it pulses without stop. 

Now, the most people will ever see of this game is my face growing more and more flush, and my breathing more erratic. The plug is very, very quiet, for one thing. For another, I have to keep myself as under control as possible. So suffice to say I’ve only gotten half-hard, at best. That doesn’t mean I don’t want to come so hard and so badly that I would taste blood in the back of my throat and see white.

In the worst instance, the sitting and pulsing had been going on for some time. I had been particularly sassy with Hannibal, and he was making me suffer for it. So much so that I began to sweat and pant. People were looking at me with distress and a few asked if I was okay. Hannibal, very smoothly, said he was my therapist and that I had an anxiety disorder we working through, and there wasn’t anything to worry about. 

When he finally,  _ finally  _ turned the plug off, I was dizzy. Hannibal helped me up and into the family bathroom. Where there was just me and him. I shook, seeing white bubbles of light, and Hannibal bent me over the counter to part my cheeks and pull the plug out. He was very slow, and careful, but I was so over sensitized that I whimpered. 

“Ssssh,” Hannibal said, stroking my hair. 

And then, after washing his hands and applying a daub of lube from a packet he kept in his pocket, he slid two fingers inside me. 

Oh, I was already loose enough to take the two fingers, but -- sensitive -- and Hannibal had to clamp his hand over my mouth when I cried out. I didn’t come though. Oh no, that would have been  _ merciful.  _ Instead, and again -- sensitive -- so sensitive that it was as though there were too many nerve endings suddenly, and it was all so pleasurable and intense that I couldn’t possibly just focus my attention on one point, and come. No. He worked me for at least fifteen minutes, until I was crying, begging to come, and finally Hannibal twisted his fingers  _ just so,  _ and I came, red faced and tears streaming down my face.

“Jesus, fuck,” I said tiredly to the counter. It felt like all my bones had been pulled clean out of my body, and I was just a puddle of flesh. Very weak flesh.

Again, Hannibal helped me to stand and we cleaned up. By the time I was ready to go out,  was still exhausted so . . . Hannibal bought me frozen yogurt because a) sugar to help perk me up b) despite my earlier snark, I had most thoroughly earned it. I did not disagree, but gratefully tried to eat it with a spoon rather than lapping it up like a dog. 


	186. The Big Proposal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will (and Hannibal?) how did you two wind up being fiance's? Did us fans miss the big proposal?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Cross-posted here.](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/140943747933/will-and-hannibal-how-did-you-two-wind-up-being)

> **Will (and Hannibal?) how did you two wind up being fiance's? Did us fans miss the big proposal?**

 

Ah, yes, well, uhm, _that._

Yes, dear readers. Hannibal and I are, of all things, _engaged._ As in “engaged-to-be-wed”.

It happened over Christmas. We had lovely time by ourselves last year -- well, us and my dogs -- and I may have, on impulse, after some eating, cuddling, and sexing and maybe not in that order -- I may have proposed to Hannibal.

He might have even said yes, and even started flaunting his new status as my fiance the very next second. If he had to answer an ask, he most certainly was going to mention it. If we went out to eat, he would try to mention it as many times as possible. If we are with my work colleagues, Beverly and I continue our running bet as to how many times Hannibal can mention we are fiances. I got pulled over for speeding and Hannibal had to mention it. A telemarketer called his house and now they don’t, simply because he mentioned it so often to the last telemarketer. All his neighbors certainly know, as do mine, and my vet, and a few of my dog-sitters.

You get the idea. I’ve actually been too fascinated to be annoyed by it. On any given day he almost mentions that he’s engaged to me more often than he says my name. And if you knew the number of times he said my name in a day, then you would know how staggering and staggeringly ridiculous it all is.

Also: I said my proposal was “on impulse”, but it was more “on impulse that day”. I knew I was going to propose to Hannibal; I had since about August of last year. I would have done sooner if I had been in the right place to do so, mentally and emotionally. The real considerations  -- that is, how to propose and when to propose -- began in October last year. By the time Christmas came along I had been thinking about for nearly six months. I’d a few mimosa’s, coupled with my mood stabilizers, and I just figured _fuck it._

We’d discussed marriage before, and I’d rejected a collar Hannibal had offered (which, frankly, I still regret). And I knew Hannibal wanted to be married, but he wouldn’t force me, either.

I don’t know. It felt right.

I love him, so I asked him.

He loves me, so he said yes.  

I didn’t mention it earlier because while Hannibal was quite happy to tell _everyone,_ the exact opposite made _me_ happy. I really just wanted to have Hannibal -- my _fiance_ Hannibal -- and our engagement all to myself. I’m greedy that way.

So I hope you will forgive me, dear readers, and the fact that I didn’t post about it earlier.


	187. Absence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hey Will, how do you deal with long periods of time away from Hannibal when you two were/are together?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Originally posted here.](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/141178643723/hey-will-how-do-you-deal-with-long-periods-of)

> **Hey Will, how do you deal with long periods of time away from Hannibal when you two were/are together? (I'd love to know Hannibal's thoughts on this as well) also i'm sending virtual hugs! :)**

 

I have less  _ overt  _ attachment issues than Hannibal, though we are well and truly conjoined at this point. I would say that I find Hannibal’s absences less arduous than he finds mine, but that would be a lie. We find it difficult, just differently, and we deal with that differently. 

Back when Hannibal and I were still in our “honeymoon phase”, which was 5 % doing normal couple things, 15 % making love eyes at each other, and 80 % fucking in every position and every orifice in every way possible, and then a few ways which shouldn’t have been possible -- back in those days, when he went away on a conference, say, I  _ loathed  _ it. I hated it so much I could taste  _ blood  _ and I remained irritable for days. I would be incandescently jealous if he so much as mentioned another colleague. And I was sexually  _ desperate,  _ and not for lack of suggestive emails and texts, phone sex, or mutual masturbation via Skype. 

One might be tempted to think that I found solace by going to bars and clubs, spreading my legs while strangers took turns fucking me in the back seat of my car. Or that I took men home and made some delicious sandwich filling, bodies sweat-slick. Or maybe I just went on Craigslist and found some guys to suck off, or, who wanted to fuck my mouth until my face was sticky with spit and cum. 

But after Hannibal’s first few trips away, I did none of these. If it wasn’t something long distance with Hannibal, I abstained. I didn’t even masturbate. For some reason, the abstinence grounded me, more than sex did. The sensations and the noises and the smells and sights of sex -- they were all wonderful and vivid. But they were not Hannibal’s kitchen on a Sunday morning, where I slouched in his red sweater, drinking orange juice and enjoying how much I ached, while he hummed and made breakfast. Sex was not taking walks with Hannibal and talking about things obscure and needlessly complex and complicated, and seeing him smile when I said something  _ really  _ clever. Sex was not spooning with Hannibal in my bed -- just one more minute -- while Buster scratched at the back door wanting to be let out. Sex was not doing laundry together or making shopping lists, or changing the oil in Hannibal’s car, or any of a million other things we just found ourselves doing together. Even if we weren’t together, physically, we began to sync at some point, until we can almost -- sense -- what the other is doing. 

(I know for a fact that Hannibal is reading this, but that’s because he is breathing very loudly into my ear.)

For me, the absence of Hannibal didn’t make sex any less amazing or necessary. But when he wasn’t around, I mostly wanted to work on building boat motors, take the dogs on walks, do my laundry, make a shopping list, have a Sunday brunch -- I wanted to connect with the real things that made our relationship, well, real. I wanted to be grounded in that. Sex was part of it, naturally, but just a part. 

It was then I began to love Hannibal, I think. Not be in love -- being in love is basically being in lust. You just want to fuck them. But I began to love him. I began to love him when he was gone, not because absence made the heart fonder, but because absence taught the heart what was substantive. 

And besides, when Hannibal finally returned after my period of relative abstinence, we were both hornier than usual, and I was  _ incredibly  _ sensitive. 

So absence can also make the dick grow harder.


	188. Taboo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> what does will consider his most taboo sexual encounter that he still masturbates to behind hannibal's back?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for mentions of sexual assault. Nothing graphic.
> 
> Cross posted [here](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/142593700423/what-does-will-consider-his-most-taboo-sexual) on Tumblr.

[OOC: Dearest anon: I am so so _so_ sorry it took me so long to answer this. I hope it will be worth the wait.

Will’s “official” answer is on the top, the things he’s withholding on the bottom.]

 

* * *

 

> **what does will consider his most taboo sexual encounter that he still masturbates to behind hannibal's back?**

 

Because I surreptitiously want to defile every single one of the nooks and crannies in Hannibal’s house and the only way to do so is by holding my throbbing cock and jerking myself off to some _obscene_ encounter I’ve never told Hannibal about.

Anon, what makes you think there’s anything Hannibal _doesn’t_ know, or hasn’t at least guessed, about my numerous sexual encounters? Even without our impending nuptials, we are conjoined. He knows my soul, you could say, and that’s more than enough for him to have a decent understanding of my most taboo sexual encounters. (And, let’s be frank, he’s been involved in more than a few of those taboo encounters.)

He even knows about fantasies which I don’t like to admit to _myself._

So, suffice to say there are no taboo encounters which I beat off to without Hannibal’s knowledge. I know that’s boring, but that’s the truth of the matter, more or less.

* * *

I say his name just as I come, and just as Hannibal enters.

[ “ _Frank_ .” ](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/109810503728/will-you-have-been-breaking-my-heart-but-i-need)

That name hangs in the air with the scent of my cum -- like rotting fruit.

Hannibal sniffs in revulsion, begins removing his suit so he can dress down for his post-work activities. Of course dressing down means some tailored designer shirt and slacks. Sometimes he doesn’t even bother taking more than his jacket off, and waltzes around in his vest and tie.

I want to burn his entire goddamn wardrobe.

“Go on, sniff in that superior way of yours,” I snarl, pulling my jeans and underwear up. “You don’t have to like it.”

“I don’t when you choose to have those fantasies in _our bed._ ”

Touché. I’m not used to calling some things _ours_ yet. I suppose this bed is, as is mine in Wolf Trap. I wonder what the weight of a wedding band will feel like.

Now though --

“No matter where you found me you’d be angry about it, so don’t pretend the bed makes any goddamn difference, Hannibal.”

He looks like he’s just sucked on a lemon.

“I don’t know why you insist on having fantasies about that loathsome creature.”

He’s waiting, so he actually wants me to answer.

“I don’t know, okay? I don’t know. I can’t get him out of my head no matter what I do. I’m just trying to make sense of it all.”

“All?”

“Everything. [Frank.](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/117174825633/did-hannibal-start-seeing-someone-else-after-you) [Getting stabbed](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/121935682378/and-promises-april-24-timestamp). Basically PTSD crap. Everything. It’s like a big knot in my head that I can’t get undone.”

Hannibal makes a noise which is neither approval nor disapproval.

“Like I said, you don’t have to like it. Any more than I have to like the fact [ you killed Frank ](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/123905813878/utterly-and-completely).”

Hannibal narrows his eyes at me. That’s it. Anger. Come and get me. Come and put your hands around my throat and squeeze until I see black.

“He thoroughly deserved his end,” Hannibal says.

“Yeah, but that wasn’t for _you_ to decide. That should have been _my_ kill. My choice. My retribution.”

He sighs.

“If you want to continue having this dull argument --”

“I do, Hannibal, I do. I don’t think you understand how unfair what you did is.”

“What would you have me do, lock him in the basement until you recovered?”

“Maybe, yes.”

“Preposterous.”

“Oh, but you’ve done it before, in the past, before me. Or did you think I wouldn’t figure that out?” A mocking lilt to my voice, the cock of my head.

Hannibal huffs, at a loss for words. It’s not hard to slide out of bed, sinuous, and wrap my arms around his waist. He smells like the sandalwood of his aftershave and his minty clean cologne. I sigh and draw him close, closer.

“Why couldn’t you leave Frank for me?” I whisper.

“Because I love  you too much and he _hurt_ you.”

“And so he was just supposed to die because you decided it?”

“Yes,” he bristles.

I laugh.

“The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away.”

I nuzzle him just so I can smell his skin.

“You know I’m still pissed at you,” I say.

“Clearly,” he says, drolly. “It has been nearly a year, Will.”

“So what? Who’s the one who told me that ‘healing takes as long as it takes’, hm?”

He presses his lips together, but he’s smiling that odd smile of his: not exactly

malevolent, not exactly magnanimous.

“Is that what you think killing Frank would have accomplished for you, Will? Healing?”

“Justice,” I say. “Recovery.”

“Both of those would be healing.”

“No, you don’t get to define this for me, Hannibal. You do not.”

He shrugs as if to say _very well,_ and I let him go so he can finish getting dressed. The pink shirt is becoming on him, and makes him bright as a flame in the dimness of his -- _our_ \-- bedroom.

“You know Frank loved me.”

Hannibal stiffens at this.

“You can’t call what he felt for you --”

“Yes, I can. Because it’s true. He loved me. [ And he assaulted me ](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/117174825633/did-hannibal-start-seeing-someone-else-after-you). And he mauled my face. And that’s part of what I need to figure out, too, you know. How he could love me and how he could hurt me like he did.”

He sighs.

“Is that why you fantasize about him?”

“Yes and no.”

Hannibal is quiet for a long time.

“I suppose that it makes some sense,” he says finally.

Maybe I’ll kiss him, and maybe I’ll just go and hold on to him. I don’t know. I know that I love him, I know that I’m angry with him, I know he hurt me, and will hurt me, and I know he tries, in his ways, to make amends when he does. He’s often terrible at it, but he tries. He tries.

 


	189. You Are the One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Crossposted on Tumblr.](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/142913096828/you-are-the-one-timestamp)

**April 4**

I don’t dream him. I never do. He comes in waking moments. [ The flash of a blade like a mirror shard ](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/121935682378/and-promises-april-24-timestamp) as Hannibal and I cut the vegetables for dinner. A peculiar, sulfuric smell in the air, like old books and dried blood and desert sand. [ Poetry, the sound of it rattling and rattling ](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/122016321473/this-beast-so-ravenous-for-love), like hail and wind beating against my house during a summer storm.

He loved poetry.

One time he read me “To a Dark Moses”. He read it to me while I lay naked and belly down in his bed, half sleeping, half listening as his dark voice, strong and thick as tar, read it to me. I felt every burning lovely ache in my body.

_You are the one_

_I am lit for._

He loved poetry.

And he loved me.

And that’s why I spent months of last year, whiskey wailing in my veins, trying to dis-remember him. Every inch, every part of him: the scar on his lip, the way he held me like I was fragile as an egg. I didn’t want to remember the pictures on his wall shaking, or how he held me there and took my clothes off, [ and forced himself against me](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/117174825633/did-hannibal-start-seeing-someone-else-after-you). And why would I want to remember the [ mirror shards tearing open my face as he cried ](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/121935682378/and-promises-april-24-timestamp), as he stabbed me again and again.

He loved me?

He loved poetry.

So it’s ironic. In his absence I look for melodies. I listen for word-songs strung in the air. I go to used bookstores so I can smell a part of him, and come home with armloads of Keats and Byron, and Audre Lorde and Sylvia Plath. I devour them all. Every last syllable, every last stanza. They burn in my mouth and my stomach.

I think I may love poetry.

I want it. I want it in my ears and in my eyes, in my mouth, on my tongue. In my skin, like the purple and blue bruises blooming there, which Mason leaves. Each blow from him reminds me of myself and each blow is poetry.

I want poetry in my blood: a meticulous regimen of pills I take every day, so I can sleep my dreamless sleep, and ensure I’m not paralyzed if I hallucinate him (and I do, oh, I do). But that poetry sings when my heart beats and pumps medicine through me.

I want poetry in my bed when I turn Hannibal onto his back in the night, and ride him until we are both breathless and see stars.

I want poetry when I go out into the night, [ and lure men who look just like Frank ](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/129922927098/bottomless-and-lovely-will). I cut them open just so I can see them die, and so I can be drenched in their sweet hot blood. I can taste him in them.

I want poetry when I see my face, the scars cleaving my skin, and one dull, lifeless eye.

I have to believe this is poetry. Even the uglier parts. Especially the uglier parts.

I love poetry. Or the idea of it.

He loved me.

But Hannibal _loves_ me. Hannibal _is_ poetry: lean, svelte dancer’s body, the sharp face, shrewd eyes. The beautiful gray in his sandy hair. The way he looks when he’s asleep -- soft and vulnerable. The way he looks by the firelight as we talk and drink. As he opens his mind to me, and lets me penetrate him in his darkest, deepest, most sacred recesses. Nothing carnal could ever be so good, so rich, as those moments when I am simply with him, and we are both fully present.

And Hannibal loves me. Even as I fantasize another man because I need to know that other man, I need to find him, I need to figure him out. Because then maybe I can figure all of this out: my face, my relationship with Mason, my medications, my kills, my relationship with Hannibal, my life after him -- after Frank.

Yes, maybe then.

 

But Hannibal still loves me.

Even when I’m furious with him, he loves me.  

Even when I’m furious with him, I love him.

In the night I go to him while he sleeps.

I whisper to him:

_You are the one_

_I am lit for._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This could be read as a continuation of the last post. This was originally intended to be the second half of the last post, but there wasn’t enough of the conflict between Will and Hannibal. Still, I thought it would be a shame not to post this, if only because it has so much of Will’s mental landscape at this point.
> 
> Also: April 4 is the anniversary of Frank assaulting Will.


	190. Changed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hannibal, you seem to share Will's perspective that your relationship has changed you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Cross posted here on Tumblr.](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/144261518913/hannibal-you-seem-to-share-wills-perspective)

> **Hannibal, you seem to share Will's perspective that your relationship has changed you. How do you think knowing Will has changed you? How would you compare the impact of those changes to other significant relationships in your life?**

 

We are identically different, he and I. Will is marked by all his experiences, including his romantic and sexual ones, however much he pretends otherwise. Whereas I am not so much unaffected as . . . not so nearly heavily influenced. Will finds himself changed by his encounters; it’s part of his mercurial nature. I find myself unchanged and fundamentally myself, always and ever.

Except, of course, when it comes to Will.

He has changed me, more than I usually care to admit.

One day I was planting tulips in the garden and I thought of how becoming they might look in front of Will’s house. Certainly more becoming than they would look in my garden. There’s something warm and inviting about Will’s house which tulips would compliment.

So naturally I bought some tulip bulbs and went to Will’s house when we wasn’t there, and planted the bulbs in secret. I came to water and care for them during the week, and Will didn’t say anything about my furtive gardening. He pretended not to know and so pretended to notice nothing being amiss. His dogs certainly noticed and liked to yap and sniff around the places where the bulbs were buried. Buster, the impish creature he is, dug one up and gnawed on it.

Despite the secretive nature of my gardening, and despite Buster’s attempts, the tulips did pierce the soil, and grew, and finally bloomed. There were a flush of colors: creamy yellows, blood reds, soft purples, and lacy whites. All perfect and bright against Will’s house.

“I didn’t know I had tulips,” Will said one evening, after he had me for dinner. He looked at me and smiled with pursed lips. He leaned in and whispered into my ear: “I love them.”

I truly would murder to hear him say that about anything I’ve done for him. I would murder to see him smile over one small gesture I’ve done: helped him put his coat on, combed his snarled hair; doing his laundry while he was away in the field; making him dinner at his house; petting each of his dogs in turn before sending them to bed.

I want to do things for Will _for him,_ and not because I might gain some earthly reward. When he smiles, or tells me he loves something I’ve done or given him, I don’t feel elevated because it’s for me at all. Oh, a part of me does preen. But I feel elevated because I’ve made _him_ happy.

Before Will, I would never have snuck into any of my lover’s gardens and planted flowers. That would be far too eccentric, for one thing. For another, it might be unsettling. But with Will, it feels natural to do such things. Gestures of love which were once ridiculous are now appropriate.

This may sound pitiful, but I assure you it’s not. I’ve had no significant relationships before Will. I’ve had some noteworthy and important relationships and liaisons, but nothing as remarkable or substantive as what I share with Will. Before Will, my main relationships, if you will, were with medicine and cooking. It has been since I was a med student, and that was true when I was a surgeon and then became a psychiatrist. I had other passions of course: art and music, mainly. But these great loves filled me with so much joy that human company was not always preferable. I was very happy. I was able to express myself in many creative and deeply stimulating ways through my cooking, art, and psychiatric practice. I was fulfilled and continually glad to be myself and to enjoy my life. There’s no sadness in solitude if you can appreciate yourself as you are, I think.

So compared to other significant relationships both human and non, my relationship with Will is . . . alive. It is living, breathing, and constantly in flux. It is feral and dynamic. It continually holds me in thrall. I forget who I am sometimes, and I become someone different. I might even become new. I am not sure. I am sure, however, that Will has very well cut me open and devoured my whole heart. And that cannot be said for anyone else in my life.


	191. Wedding Bells = Fuck My Life

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Issues arise as Hannibal and Will's nuptials draw near.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Originally posted here.](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/146971804578/wedding-bells-fuck-my-life)

[OOC: As per usual, the top bit, before the second line, is what Will is telling us. The bottom bit after the line is what he is _not_ telling us. :)]

 

* * *

 

Well, the Wedding (tm) is coming up in October. Hannibal wanted to get married on the anniversary of the day we met, which is fine by me, and probably one of the only things which has been _fine_ since then. It’s all gone to hell as far as I’m concerned. 

We went through five florists before finding one Hannibal _marginally_ liked, and now that florist has up and disappeared, precipitating no small amount of panic on my part, simply because _we have three fucking months to find another one which Hannibal won’t despise._

Hannibal, of course, just wants to do _everything._ The thought of having someone else do anything could cause an aneurysm for all I know. He wanted to do the cake, and I finally coaxed him into letting a master pastry chef do that. Hannibal’s cake would have been grand, you see. It would have been a dick measuring contest to show the world just how grand his cake-making skills are. I really just want a nice cake without frills because it’s _cake_. 

Hannibal is currently hand-writing our invitations and while he assures me they will be done well in advance of the wedding, with all the ostentatiously elaborate lettering, I’m not so sure 

Abigail came for a visit and saw all the wedding fury and said “nope” and promptly went back to Colorado. Which is a shame because she will have to come back again to get her groomsman (woman?) dress fitted. 

We still haven’t gotten the damn rings, and Hannibal keeps bringing up[ the engraved collars](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/106153946393/ooc-christmas-timestamp-warnings-for) from that one disastrous Christmas. 

“That was almost _two years_ ago,” I’ve reminded him.

“And yet, I still have them,” he’s said, the lines around his eyes and lips deepening with mischief.

I told him we can’t exactly exchange collars at a public wedding, and he looked at me as though I’d sprouted another head. 

Of course he'd think we could exchange collars in public.

It will all probably get figured out (please oh please) so we can have a nice wedding and then go on our honeymoon. Of all the things I thought we would ever do, going on a honeymoon was definitely _not_ one of them. But Hannibal insisted for some reason. He’s hardly traditional about many things, but he’s been surprisingly so with this wedding. And then he wanted a honeymoon, to Italy, of course. I certainly _didn’t_ object to that. 

 

* * *

 

“I can’t believe you fucking killed the florist.”

The man’s body hangs from the basement ceiling, mournfully dripping blood.

“He said something rude about you.”

“Jesus fucking Christ, Hannibal.”

“He said something about you being effeminate and it wasn’t complimentary.”

“So? So what? I’ll dial my effeminacy up to one thousand, who gives a fuck, _you killed the fucking florist_. Less than three months away from the wedding!”

Silence.

“I hope this won’t be a bone of contention between us, Will.”

“You are not getting any until you find me another fucking florist.”

“You are oddly attached to this florist thing.”

“Because it took me _months_ to find this one who you could _stand_. I am not finding another florist because you got pissy and killed this one!”

Further silence.

“So what are you going to do with him, Hannibal? Make some kind of murder tableau?”

“I should think not. Too risky. The connection between us and him is too direct. No, we’ll just have to -- eat him up.”

I sigh. 

“Please don’t serve him to our wedding guests.”

“Why not?”

“Just -- no, Hannibal, no.”

Hannibal looks momentarily deflated, but then perks. 

“More for us then.”

“Oh god, why are you like this?”

There are answers to that question, and there are answers to that question. I know both kinds, at any rate. As I trap him against the wall, pulling at his tie, I don’t really care. I haven’t at all for a long, long time now. 

His kiss is sweet and bloody -- like coming home. 


	192. Therapy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How are things going in therapy - I think you mentioned that your psychiatrist used to be Hannibal's?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Originally posted here.](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/147153048668/hope-things-are-going-well-will-youve-been)

[OOC: The usual. Will’s response on top, what he’s not telling starts after the first break.]

 

> **Hope things are going well, Will, you've been through a lot. How are things going in therapy - I think you mentioned that your psychiatrist used to be Hannibal's?**

 

Things are going well, thank you @snarkcake. I am doing better every day, and especially since I’ve passed some unpleasant anniversaries.

As for my psychiatrist, Bedelia -- oh Bedelia, Bedelia, Bedelia.

Shall I compare thee to a winter’s day?  
Thou art less lovely and less temperate.

Yes, she had been Hannibal's therapist once, and I more or less hate her. At first she was very helpful, and the medications she prescribed were pretty good. But over time she’s been . . . not so helpful. A primary factor in that was Hannibal telling me he once had a relationship “of sorts” with her. A relationship “of sorts” they conducted in Florence, Italy.

I was perhaps a little jealous. This made me a bit spiteful towards Bedelia. At first Bedelia didn’t respond, but over time she became spiteful in return. And now you have a picture of my current therapy sessions: Bedelia and I trading veiled and snide insults. She’s really very clever, I have to give her that, she is certainly astute. I find myself fascinated by her at times, curious about what she’ll do in say in response to my barrage of insults. So for these reasons, I return each week so we can mutually despise one another.

As for my actual psychological health -- it fairs well. I still have panic attacks, and sometimes I am triggered by something, or see things which aren’t there. But it’s not nearly as bad as it was. I function pretty well. Aside from my face, you’d never known I’d survived a violent attack. And as I said, Bedelia was very helpful on the onset of our therapy. She was good with my trauma, and I still use some of what she taught me, like cognitive behavioral therapy.

Sometimes I wish Hannibal hadn’t said anything, because then I’d still have a psychiatrist to turn to.

* * *

March 17, 2016

 

“Why do you think Hannibal told you about his relationship with me?”

She’s almost demure as she says it, twisting the bracelet on her wrist.

Because Hannibal is a fucking dick.

“He wanted to see what would happen, I suppose.”

“You ascertain correctly, I’m afraid.”

The corner of her mouth quirks, as if in a sympathetic little smile.

“How does it make _you_ feel, that he divulged such personal information about you to a patient?”

“And his lover.”

“How did Hannibal divulging information about your relationship with him make you feel, Dr. Du Maurier?”

“A sexual relationship.”

Her words are crisp and sharp. She intends them to cut.

I need alcohol for this shit.

“Yes.”

“I felt concern for my patient and how this would impact his therapy.”

“How charitable.”

“I am still your therapist, Will. Mr. Graham, I mean.”

“Tell me, did you fuck him while you were in Florence?”

I know the answer. I just want to hear her say it.

She doesn’t even move, or flinch. She’s a Roman statue, white and immobile.

“Yes, we fucked while in Florence.”

She is a master. She makes “fuck” sound positively antiseptic.

“When this little rendezvous of yours finished, did you stop fucking?”

“No,” she says. “We kept fucking for six months afterwards.”

Her tone completely neutral.

“When did the fucking start?”

“It started, occasionally, two years before Florence.”

I let her answers waft in the air like smoke.

“What are you thinking, Mr. Graham?”

I need to stop shaking.

“How much . . . did you see of Hannibal then? How well did you know him?”

She does smile now, and it’s terrifying.

“About as much as you, I’d assume. We’ve both been behind the veil, so to speak.”

The air is being squeezed from my lungs and the floor and ceiling are dizzy things. Ringing, ringing, high pitched, battering my eardrums.

It’s too late.

She feigns concern.

“Mr. Graham?”

She’s right by my side, _touching me,_ putting her hand on my arm.

“Don’t,” I yank my arm away. “ _Don’t._ ”

“Are you alright?”

“I’m going.”

“Your session isn’t finished.”

“You’ll be paid for the full hour, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

Jesus it’s hard to stand. My legs want to fall apart right under me.

“No, I’m worried about you.”

“Save it for someone who believes it, _Bedelia_.”

I can’t slam the door in her face, but I can show her my back.

She’s won this round.

* * *

When Hannibal comes home the first kiss is bloody, biting his lip open. And then there’s no air between us, because I’ve punched Hannibal right in the stomach.

“Will,” he coughs.

“How could you?”

I throw another punch, this time at his nose, and Hannibal dodges it.

“How could I what, Will?”

“Bedelia.”

Her name comes out in a snarl.

And then I’m on him again, throwing wild punches while he tries to shield himself. That doesn’t last long, though, and he grabs me and slams me into the wall, once, twice. _Fuck, yes._ I kick backwards, still gripped in his arms, and throw us into the kitchen island. I hear Hannibal grunt in pain as I tumble to the floor. He’s on me now, growling, and we roll on the floor, kicking and punching in turn, until Hannibal manages to flip me onto my stomach, and then a coarse rope against my throat, tightening, tightening. I can’t breathe, I can’t fucking breathe, the world crackling around the edges, and then darkening and closing in. Slap the floor  _one, two . . . three._ Our breathplay safeword.

He lets go and the air rushes back so quickly I’m coughing. Hannibal gets off me and I turn onto my back, rasping. He puts the rolled up kitchen towel he used to choke me away, then pulls me up and gives me a glass of water. I drink and it aches.

I look at him and snort. He’s a bloodied, bruised mess and I probably am too.

“Well,” Hannibal says, as if I’d just brought home the groceries.

It’s so banal it makes me cry. Heaving until my chest hurts, tears overwhelming my eyes, snot dripping from my nose. The words are like shards of glass being pushed through my skin.

“I was supposed to be the only one. It was supposed to just be me. Who went with you beyond the veil. Just me.”

He puts his arms around me reluctantly at first, and then firmly. All I have to do is cry like an idiot and put my cheek to his chest.

“My dear Will,” his voice rumbles in my ear. “Is that what you were hurt about? That Bedelia had been with me in -- that way?”

“Yes.”

I wipe my face when he releases me.

“I thought I was the only one.”

He puts the kettle on and I feel unmoored, like a leaf borne away by the river.

Hannibal doesn’t say anything, just puts some tea leaves and herbs in the teapot.

“Were there more than just me and Bedelia?”

His silence is answer enough.

“How could you?”

There’s no fury in it though; just exhaustion. My cuts and bruises are starting to throb. He steers me into that chair in the corner of his kitchen, and wraps me in a blanket.

Silence while he pours the water into the teapot and lets the tea steep. Hannibal then pours a cup from the teapot and hands it to me.

“If it’s any consolation, none of them ever came as far as you have. None of them ever knew me as you do. And none of them have ever survived, except you and Bedelia. And, given time, just you.”

It could be the tea, but I do feel a little better.


	193. Gifts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will, when it comes to gift giving holidays. What do you give to a Hannibal that has everything?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Originally posted here.](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/147507065083/will-when-it-comes-to-gift-giving-holidays-what)

> **Will, when it comes to gift giving holidays. What do you give to a Hannibal that has everything? or can buy whatever he wants?**

 

Ah, the old “what do you buy for a man who has everything?” quandary.

He can buy whatever he wants anyways, so we don’t do that. If money has to be spent, he most enjoys spending it on me.

But because Hannibal does have practically everything he could ever want, and then some, it does make gift-giving . . . challenging. I’ve had to do some pretty interesting things for birthdays and holidays. I won’t bore you with a litany of presents, but I will give you my top four hits, so to speak. 

1\. We hadn’t been together very long when Hannibal’s birthday rolled around. Since we were, in some respects, still learning about each other, this present was a definite gamble. I went to the toy store and bought an amazing wooden yo-yo. It was very tastefully painted red and yo-yo’ed like a dream. I thought: maybe the man who has everything wants a little something which is both fun and cheap. So I bought it and put it in a very nice box and wrapped it up beautifully and gave it to Hannibal. I’m not sure what he was expecting, but it definitely wasn’t a yo-yo. He examined it rather curiously at first, and then with a decided glint of mischief in his eye, he said “thank you” and pocketed the yo-yo. That, I thought, would be the end of that strange misadventure in gift giving. I felt a little embarrassed by it all, really. But then, some weeks later, I walked into Hannibal’s office and found him casually rolling his yo-yo across the floor. I asked him what he was doing and he said, very cheekily, “Why, Will,  [I’m walking the dog](https://yoyotricks.com/yoyo-tricks/walk-the-dog/189/) .”

2\. I will admit to having named a star after Hannibal. I know it’s not official and BX7-5203 will remain BX7-5203, rather than “Hannibal”. I also know it’s sappy as fuck. But you can laugh exactly when you see that look of tender amusement cross your lover’s face as you tell them you’ve named a star after them. You can also laugh when you take them outside, on a cold, cold night, with the stars spread all across the black sky, and the glowing white arc of the Milky Way rising. Laugh when you set up the telescope, and you find BX7-5203 -- or whatever your star is -- and you take turns looking at that far away object, millions and millions of light years away. The galaxy was formed and earth was born twenty times over -- that’s how long it would take to reach your beloved’s star, so far out in the cosmos. And there might be nothing I could buy the man who has everything, nor that I could give him. I can’t even really name the stupid star. But it’s the thought of the thing, rather than the thing itself, which has meaning and poignancy. It says: look. I can give you something of eternity.

3\. One year he had an explicit birthday wish that I should “do what I wanted” with him. I could make him my slave for the day and have him perform all manner of tasks which I asked of him. I could tie him up and vary the positions throughout the day. I could wrap him in saran wrap and leave him as a Hannibal burrito on the couch -- whatever my desire was. He was very insistent that I should please myself. I thought it a little strange to ask that for a birthday. Why not let me  _offer_ the same instead? But no matter. It was his request. Who was I to argue, especially since I got to do  _whatever_ I wanted to that beautiful man. A lot was done to Hannibal that day, but my favorite entails him lying on his side, ankles and wrists bound, blindfolded, and gagged. First, I started with my fingers, well lubed and slow and teasing, running them around the rim of his hole, and then dipping one finger in, and then two, opening him with languid twists. Then, I slid in a slender little butt plug -- and oh, oh yes, he’d had far bigger in his ass -- but this was only part of the progression. Over time the butt plugs became dildos became anal spreaders. By then he was well covered in sweat, his cock red and throbbing, leaking all over. I’d undone his bindings a few times to massage his wrists and ankles, and given him breaks from the gag. But there was yet more. The larger spreaders, which made him groan as they slid in -- stretching him open enough that he gaped for me. The last spreader, widest of all, was also clear, so as it settled inside him, I could see him, hot and tight, as he clenched around the spreader. I pressed my fingers to the base of the spreader and just gently massaged it in its place. Hannibal’s back bent like a bow, and he tried moaning around the gag. “You’re such a good, good boy, aren’t you?” I crooned. Hannibal was vibrating with need, his cock thick. I sat down next to him and stroked his hair. “Do you want to come?” I whispered into his ear. He nodded. “Then come for me.” I took the gag off, just to hear him panting, then yelping and groaning as he came, pulsing around that spreader.

4\. Reader,  [I proposed to him last Christmas](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/140943747933/will-and-hannibal-how-did-you-two-wind-up-being) . No gift ever shall eclipse that, for the both of us.

* * *

[OOC: I am not sure how they name stars, but I'm pretty sure that my star designation would not be right.]

 


	194. Wedding Planner

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will and Hannibal plan their wedding.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Originally posted here.](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/147976483668/wedding-planner)

[OOC: So I had to do this in an unusual way, because I couldn’t get tables and the like to work properly in AO3 or Tumblr.

This is Will and Hannibal’s somewhat disorderly wedding planners. I have taken screencaps and posted them here, with the planners side by side so you can read them. They are complementary voices, if you will. I have also included the final text below, for those who are visually impaired, and so people can read it in their ereaders, though, not the way it was originally intended to be read. There are also some notes and links at the bottom.]

* * *

 

* * *

**Wedding Planner**

_Will:_

 

June 

\- Attended pre-wedding counseling. Went roughly like:

Hannibal: How do you feel about this, Will?

Me: Like it’s stupid.

Hannibal: That in itself might betray --

Me: I’m done.

Hannibal: Will --

Me: Done!

 

\- Shop for wedding rings. God save me from Hannibal.

\- Shop for invitations. God save me from Hannibal part 2.

\- Visit Hannibal’s tailor and get measured for tuxes.

\- Get tuxes made. Book extra appointment for Hannibal to preen.

\- What the fuck does it mean to “envision” a wedding cake?

\- Get someone fancy to do a fancy wedding cake.

 

July 

\- [ Florist (again) ](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2221539/chapters/16815211)

\- Ice & advil for me.

\- Apparently Hannibal needs ice & advil too, for when he writes the invites. All whatever hundred of them. I told him “close friends only”. Not half of Baltimore. Did he listen?

\- Whiskey for when Hannibal doesn’t listen.

\- Final fittings for tuxes. Will this take forever? Not? I don’t know.

 

Aug 

\- Mail invites.

\- Write vows. Remind Hannibal we set an upper limit of 3 paragraphs, 1 page, single spaced, front & back. Also must be 80 % English, or more, just out of mercy for the guests. (And not to be a show-off.) Especially no Archaic Greek. Dante is okay, in moderation.

\- Purchase gifts for each other -- LMAO as the kids say. If I don’t kill him, that will be my gift to him.

 

Sept 

\- Apply for marriage  license ???!!!???!!??

That just seems unreal. This thing, this  crazy beautiful thing, is going to be legal.

\- Final tux fittings, tailor please make my ass look really good.

\- Strike that.  AMAZING . It is my wedding day.

\- Call groomsmen and women. Make sure they have clothes for wedding. If not, figure out where their clothes went.

\- When calling Abigail, try not to give in and have phone sex.

\- Fuck it. Have phone sex.

\- Create wedding program to hand out to guests. Persuade Hannibal not to make it too pompous by using sexual bribes.

\- Start planning welcome baskets for out of town guests because apparently this is a thing? Hannibal vetoed my idea of putting lures in the baskets. Sigh.

 

2 weeks before lift-off 

\- Hunt down anyone who hasn’t given a final RSVP.

\- Tell photographer what shots of my ass they should take. Oh, and what other shots.

\- Give DJ final song list. Use more sexual bribes to make sure Hannibal doesn’t populate it entirely with Bach. And harpsichord music.

\- Pretty sure he’s going to use sexual bribes in return to make sure I don’t add too much Neil Young.

 

1 week before lift-off 

\- Everything while drinking.

\- Give final head count to all the people who need it (reception/caterers).

\- Let Hannibal plan seating chart and do place and table cards.

\- Attend separate bachelor parties. Get laid. A lot. Return home smelling of sex with other people just to make Hannibal jealous. Have lots of rough possessive sex with Hannibal.

\- Probably doggy, fucking me hard while he pulls my hair.

\- I guess I can’t put this wedding planner on the fridge anymore.

 

_Hannibal:_

 

June 

* Attending pre-wedding counseling today.

* Pre-wedding counseling is, admittedly, a work in progress.

* Wedding ring shopping. Will is strangely resistant to exploring the rich worlds of hand-crafted, made-to-order rings, but I will win him over.

* Shop for invitations. Check paper grain and taste.

* Visit my tailor. Peruse materials and designs. Draw up informal tuxedo models for both Will and myself. Have both our measurements taken. Have both our tuxedos made.

* Since Will insists I cannot be responsible for all the food, find someone to make the wedding cake.

 

July 

* [ Find a new florist. ](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2221539/chapters/16815211)

* Write the invites.

* Attend fittings for tuxedos.

 

Aside: I do believe good Will finds these wedding preparations quite stressful, which is perhaps why he is so very recalcitrant to do certain things, _id est_ , wedding rings. It also explains why he is so very acerbic. (a)

August 

* Mail invites.

* Write vows. I will try and abide by Will’s ridiculous and stringent “guidelines”. But I must confess that he inspires such poetry in me that the thought of constraining myself to a page (a page!) makes me positively queasy. I want nothing more than for the entire wedding party to know the depth and breadth of my love for Will. For that I would properly need lifetimes, and more languages than I even know. But as I am limited to the languages and the time I have, I would do my best. But now Will has limited it even more so! It would be infuriating except it is Will.

At least I have my Dante.

* I haven’t purchased a gift for him. I have been making lures. Hooks carved from old ivory piano keys, or spun of pure silver, feathers of silk and velvet, woven with seed pearls, both white and black. They are things of beauty, and completely unlike him. Which is why he will love them. They are fine and ostentatious like myself, but they are flies, an imitation of the real ones he uses. They are a reflection of us, a combination of the both of us.

 

September 

* Apply for marriage license. Feels so unnecessary, really; we’ve been married in our hearts for some time.

* Final tuxedo fittings.

* Call groomsmen and women and confirm that they have their formal wear in order.

* He is most certainly going to have phone sex with Abigail. He could never say “no” to her.

* Create wedding program.

* Plan welcome baskets for out of town guests.

 

2 weeks prior 

* Gather final RSVPs from guests.

* Deliver list of shots to the photographer.

* Deliver final song list to DJ. Make sure that Will does not put too much Neil Young on the list. While he is a passable songwriter, he is rather maudlin, all things considered. I would rather not be too sad at my own wedding. ([ “Don’t let it bring you down.” ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1jzhLtt_pGQ))

 

1 week prior 

* Reassure Will that all is well. Make sure he doesn’t drink too much. Remind him not to be too serious. It is a wedding, after all.

* Give receptionist and caterers final head count of guests.

* Plan seating chart.

* Write place and table cards.

* Attend separate bachelor parties. Anticipate that Will will get fucked by others and return home in a state of post-fornication.

Plan a suitable “welcome”.

 

Regarding (a) above: Contemplate alternatives to existing wedding plans.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [The florist incident](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2221539/chapters/16815211).
> 
> Hannibal references the Neil Young Song [“Don’t Let It Bring You Down”](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1jzhLtt_pGQ).


	195. Love Is Coming to Us All

[OOC:

My dearest readers,

It’s been nearly two years since this blog began, and it’s been a wild ride in that time. Will has had some really interesting sexual adventures (and misadventures), had a very complex relationship with Abigail, broken up with Hannibal, had a rebound relationship which turned out very poorly (to understate it), gotten back together with Hannibal, proposed to Hannibal, and is now planning a wedding with, yes, of course -- Hannibal.

And I’ve loved every minute of it.

But the time has come for me to put this project aside.

It’s not easy for me to write this, because of how much this blog means to some people, and, because of how much it means to me still.

This was not a choice I made rashly. In fact, it’s been one I’ve contemplated, off and on, for some time.

There are a couple of reasons I’ve made this choice.

First, I feel run dry with Twinkyempath. I don’t feel there’s much of a story left to tell in this ‘verse. I also just feel like I’ve run out of ideas, energy, and initiative. My heart is no longer in it like it used to be.

Second, I want to use my time and creative energy to work on my original fiction, and keep working on fanfiction one-shots. I’ve been working on short stories, and I found myself writing a book (!) earlier this year, which I am currently rewriting. Writing a book is hard work y’all, and it takes every ounce of my creative energy to accomplish what I’ve set out to accomplish. But I am happy and excited to see where all of this is going. (FYI, you can always keep tabs on what I’m doing with my original fiction at my [Tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/edit/jskuiken.tumblr.com) and [website](https://www.tumblr.com/edit/jskuiken.com).)

While I am always a fan of “never say never”, I will have to say that this _is_ goodbye. I won’t fill prompts and I won’t write this ‘verse. That isn’t to say a one-shot might not cross your dash one of these days. But that is a very distant possibility. I just don’t want to give you false hope.

There will be five more posts, and then the story of dear Will and his Hannibal will be concluded.

All the love and support I’ve been given in the last two years has meant so, so much to me -- it deeply humbles me. Thank you, dear readers, for allowing me the opportunity of a lifetime, to have this wonderful exchange.

The askbox will be open from now on, not to take prompts, but to take questions, comments, etc. Negative comments will be deleted.

I always love the song “[ Carry On ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nP0VBB7BO64)” by CSNY. The title for this post, “Love Is Coming to Us All”, comes from that song. So do the lyrics: “Rejoice! Rejoice! We have no choice -- but to carry on.”

Rejoice. Rejoice.

Until later dear ones,

\- mresundance]


	196. Starlight in Our Blood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will and Hannibal discuss their wedding.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted [here](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/148167315133/starlight-in-our-blood-timestamp-great-i-was).

**July 22**

Great.

I was looking forward to sitting on the porch in nothing but my t-shirt and boxer-briefs, cradling an icy glass of whiskey to my head as the muggy heat and weight of work slowly dissipated with the oncoming night.

Instead, Hannibal’s here, probably to talk about _the Wedding_.

Oh god, I shouldn’t think of it like that. I should be smile-y and idiotically happy about it, like Buster on doggie steroids.

Anyways.

I can’t stay outside with the dogs all night. Hannibal might notice.

The dogs stop mawing* me for treats. My god, everything sticks, even my glasses as I climb the steps to my house.

He hasn’t noticed me just yet, and I’ve one of those sacred split seconds where I get to see him completely unguarded, without masks, behind no veils. Forget the heat. Forget wedding fatigue. _There’s_ the man -- _that’s_ the man.

I love _him_.

“Will,” he smiles at me, sounding genuinely happy. “Dinner is just about ready. Lamb.”

“What’s the occasion?”

The books in my bag _thubd_ as they hit the floor.

“Whatever we want it be.”

“Oh good. Coming home to you, then. That was a nice surprise.”

“Was it?”

He’s teasing but not. He knows me too well. Dammit.

“I’m going to go cut myself out of my clothes. Can I eat in underwear and a t-shirt?”

“First: why do you need to cut yourself out of your clothes? Second: it’s not that terribly warm, is it?”

Fucking fucker, preening in that vest and shirt and slacks and nary a spot of sweat anywhere. He is not human.

“I need to cut myself out of my clothes because they are melted to me by the heat, because yes, it _is_ that bad. But I’ll wear a t-shirt and some -- jeans.”

It would be nice to take a shower and just stand under a cold stream of water, but I can hear Hannibal whisking about, silverware clinking, dogs being shooed.

“Sit,” he says when I return.

“You’re telling me that -- in my own house.”

“I suppose I am.”

“You’re technically _my_ guest.”

“Hardly.”

That wry tone in his voice -- it gladdens me.

He sits across from me.

Of course he’s done some of his beautiful table feng shui, only to my table, and of course is gorgeous, and I never want to move any of it.

“Shall we?” he indicates the food.

That is beautiful too, and it almost feels like a crime to eat it. Almost.

The talking we do now is the kind you do at an amazing dinner table. Quiet, except for some grunts and moans, sighs. Of course the lamb is superb -- Hannibal’s lamb is _always_ superb -- and it melts like butter on my tongue.

Lamb happily digesting, I take my wine.

“So here we are.”

“Here we are.”

“To us.”

“To us.”

“Soon to be wed,” he murmurs as we finish drinking our toast.

Oh fuck.

“Please, not right now.”

“What? Wedding talk?” he asks.

“Yes, wedding talk. I’m so done with this wedding and we’ve still two months to go.”

Silence.

Oh fuck oh shit oh fuck oh shit oh fuckity shit shit fuck.

“Oh god, I’m sorry. I want to marry you, Hannibal, of course I do. I’m just -- overwhelmed by it all.”

Silence.

“Hannibal?”

“I only want what makes you happy, Will. If you said we should rent a cathedral --”

“As we have --”

“As we have. If you said you wanted to rent it and throw a large traditional wedding I would. But if you wanted something else because that would give you greater happiness, we can still do that.”

“What are you saying?”

“I’m saying we can change our plans if you want. If that would make you happier.”

“What about you? What about what you want? Shouldn’t this be a -- compromise?”

“It depends.”

Quiet.

“I have kind of just been going along with things. With doing what I think you wanted.”

“And now it’s made you miserable”

I shrug.

“What do you want, Will?”

I shrug again.

“We could elope.”

His voice soft, sweet.

“We could go now, tonight. Pack our bags and leave for Florence in the morning.”

“There is something romantic about that.”

But I think sunshine. I think blue skies. I think green branches and hazel waters.

“What if we . . . what if we married, by some muddy excuse of a creek? Got our shoes and pants filthy on the way there, and then came back here and made love like there was starlight in our blood?”

Silence.

More silence.

And more.

Hannibal looks at me from across the table.

“It little matters to me how I have you, Will, just that I have you.”

My kitchen light shines warm and yellow over him and I want to stay here in this moment, forever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * Yes, I meant "mawing" :).


	197. Truth or Dare

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will and Hannibal share some secrets and other intimacies.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Originally posted here on Tumblr.](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/148275432073/truth-or-dare-timestamp)

[OOC: This follows almost directly after the last chapter.]

* * *

**Truth or Dare**

**July 22**

There’s no question. We clear the table together. We wash the dishes together. We wipe the countertops down together. When we’re done, I wind my arms around him. He’s a solid heat, and his stubble is coarse as I kiss him.

He’s not going anywhere. Not with his pajamas and his toothpaste and his shampoo and shaving cream and shoes and clothes and everything else of his which now lives in my house, with me. He’s staying tonight, as he has many nights, as he will many more nights.

There’s only enough room in the bathroom for one of us at a time. So I put the dogs to bed, begin to clean and sharpen my folding blade, since I never have time to do it otherwise, while I wait for him to finish grooming. If he didn’t look so beautiful I’d protest more.

“What do you think we should do?” he asks, voice echoing from the bathroom.

The blade is silver in my hands, burning.

“About what?”

“About our living arrangements, after the wedding?”

“I don’t know. I like my house. You like yours. Do we need to -- conjoin them or something?”

“That would be traditional.”

“Because we are _so_ traditional.”

He smells of sandalwood tonight, musky and warm. He sits on the edge of the bed, his silky pajama bottoms soft against my legs, and the hair on his chest rubbing my shoulder.

“What do you have there?”

“My folding knife.”

He takes the handle in his palm and the blade whispers over my pulse.

“What a clever little thing.”

“I mostly cut ties with it. Hey, did you ever play ‘truth or dare?’?”

The blade slides back into my palm.

“No.”

“I didn’t think so. I didn’t either.”

“Why do you bring it up, Will?”

“I heard some students talking about it.”

“Ah.”

“It’s a game. When a player is ‘selected’, they can choose between ‘truth’ or ‘dare’. If they choose ‘truth’, they have to answer a question -- any question -- truthfully. If they choose ‘dare’, they have to do something risky or embarrassing.”

“I am aware of the game, Will. I might have had a few ‘dares’ in my emergency room.”

“Ouch.”

“Indeed.”

“Hey.”

“Yes, Will?”

“Wanna play?” I murmur.

“Yes.”

“The dare can be a clean cut -- anywhere --” I rub my thumb over the blade until it throbs. “The cut can be as deep as you want. The truth -- you can ask anything. We’ll just go back and forth. You go first.”

“Very well.”

He pulls away and cocks his head, as though I am some strange artifact locked in a glass case, something he can see but can’t touch, yet wants to.

“Tell me about Mason,” he says after awhile. “Why do you have your particular -- [ arrangement with him ](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2221539/chapters/13794906)?”

He practically hisses the word _arrangement,_ which actually makes me laugh _._

“You’re always jealous -- even though we’re not fucking -- you’re jealous.”

Hannibal purses his lips.

“I could say the same for you, [ especially with Bedelia ](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2221539/chapters/16908142).”

“Only you actually _did_ fuck her.”

“That’s in the past. What’s happening between you and Mr. Verger is very much in the present.”

“Well, it’s not fucking, for starters. But you knew that.”

Pause.

[ “It feels good, honestly ](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2221539/chapters/14026390) . We have no safewords, no aftercare. You won’t like hearing this, but he gets to break me to pieces. And then I have to pick myself up and put myself back together again. No-one else can do that for me. No-one else is there to help me. It makes me feel . . . powerful. Since what happened with Frank, I haven’t felt like . . . I had power. But this makes me feel like I have power again. That I have control. I _can_ put myself together.

“And I couldn’t do that with you, Hannibal.  You love me a little . . . too much. You would never have foregone aftercare even if I had _begged_ you. You’d never break me the way Mason does. I just -- need him for that.

“So. _That_ is my Mason thing.”

I can see something turning in Hannibal’s head.

“My turn. _Dare._ ”

The knife a silver-red blur, a shallow red gash along his stomach, and then my mouth tracing the seam of his blood.

“Mmm.”

He takes my face in his hands and pulls me into a kiss, sucking his blood off my lips.

“Your turn.”

“Truth,” his breath warm on my lips. “Any truth you want to give.”

Quiet.

Outside, the wind sings between the tree branches.

“After that huge fight we had, last September?”

“Yes.”

“When we didn’t talk to each other for a few weeks?”

“Yes.”

[ “I killed men.” ](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2221539/chapters/11179390)

Quiet.

“How many?”

“Four.”

“How did you kill them?”

“I lured them with the promise of sex. I lured them to some backwoods road and then I slit their throats and burned their bodies.”

“Did you have a reason?”

Pause.

“They looked like Frank. I was angry with him. I was angry with you. Hell, I was angry with everyone and everything. I wanted control. No -- I wanted vengeance.”

Pause.

“Oh, Will.”

There’s only desire and adoration in his voice. His lips are strong with ardor as he begins kissing me again.

“No, stop,” I laugh. “I want to keep playing!”

“I killed someone during that time, too. Only he looked like you.”

“ _What_?”

“I _missed_ you,” he pouts now, as though he’d only shattered a favored mug to annoy me, rather than slain my doppleganger. [ “I missed you and I missed the person you were before . . . all the injuries and medications. ](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2221539/chapters/12188747) So I courted this stranger a bit. And I killed him. Because he wasn’t you, in the end.”

“Oh, well. That’s -- good? My turn, I guess.”

I straddle him now, his body hot between my thighs, the blade white in my hands. A silver moon against his jugular.

Hannibal looks lovingly up at me, so lovingly. The blade falls from my hand and Hannibal has his arms clamped around me, the knife-tip against my throat, a ribbon of blood unspooling to my collarbone.

“Let your guard down, didn’t you, Will? _Tck, tck, tck_.”

His breath feverish across my throat and shoulder.

Rolling me onto my back, he straddles me, pricking my chin with the knife. The knife moves from my chin, the flat of the blade running over the scars on the left side of my face. I can’t breathe; the flicker of light from the blade is not unlike the flickers of light I saw as Frank stabbed me.

Hannibal puts the knife aside, and looks down at me. Turning my face, exposing the left side. Touching one of the scars. He traces a crescent, which used to be an eyebrow, with his forefinger. He kisses a violent arc from my cheek to my chin. He nuzzles that line, right between my upper and lower teeth, a wound which I could push my tongue through. And then a kiss against the corner of my blind eye.

I’m clutching him, and we’re shaking, suspended between arousal and loving.

“Will.”

He sounds hoarse.

“Yeah?”

“Will, I want to -- I would like to rub against your face.”

“. . . against my scars?”

He nods.

God he is so fucked up. I love him so much.

“Okay.”

Kneeling on the floor is easiest. Shedding his pajama bottoms, it’s fun to tease his cock just a little -- pulling back the folds of skin to find that supple head -- and then tease him more by slicking him with lube, listening to the small hitches in his breathing. Then, when he’s ready, I can sit back.

His cock burns as he slides against my cheek the first time. He gasps, just a little, at the sensation. Back and forth, back and forth, he rocks, rubbing his cock against me. I cup my hand over him, giving him more friction, more heat. He grunts and rocks harder, faster. Sweat gleams on his collarbone, and his breathing is becoming ragged. But most of all I like looking up at him and having him look back.

I hum, my mouth vibrating against him and he moans and there -- there’s that twitch -- cum on my cheek and between my fingers, Hannibal panting.

I wipe myself off with the bedsheet and he joins me on the floor. We’re looking at one another again, our hair mussed, skin flushed. Mine, undoubtedly, with cum drying on it. But we’re looking.

Seeing and being seen.  

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Altered parts of the beginning to tweak the tone of the chapter, and to eliminate some inconsistencies with the last chapter.


	198. Each of Them Into the Other

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hannibal and Will get married.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Posted here on Tumblr.](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/148426064218/each-of-them-into-the-other-august-3-all-that)

**August 3**

All that matters now is him: his hand in the small of my back; the way the early sunlight, brilliant and pink-white, splinters through the forest and strikes his hair; the fine lines around his mouth curving, _just so,_ whispering now of merriment; his soft gray suit flattering his slender waist and broad shoulders -- as if they needed flattery; and his gait powerful, confident -- the easy gait of a predator, a tiger, stripes rippling danger.  

I want to look and look and have my fill of him.

“Will. You’re supposed to be leading us.”

“Oh. Yeah.”

Further up and further in, then. It’s nice the path is fairly well worn; it won’t sully our suits and our shoes too badly, nor the shoes and slacks of our officiant and guest. It’s good to be here early, before the hobby hikers and the picnickers. We slide through the woods nearly silent as the deer.

When I brought him the first time, less than a week ago, he’d said the spot was “beautiful”. And he hadn’t been humoring me. He’d meant it.

Willows wind above and below, give way to sweet grass and a view of the blue, blue river, dappled with golden sunlight. Where I fish, often enough, earlier or later in the season, when there aren’t so many tourists.

“Beautiful,” Hannibal says again.

“Nice, Graham.”

Jean does me the courtesy of thumping me on the back.

“I’m going to prepare,” she says. She waddles off, looking over some notecards, muttering some official officiant things.

“I will never know where you found her, Hannibal. She told me not to ‘fuck it up’, in reference to our marriage.”

“Jean was a dear friend, once. And a very lively dinner guest.”

“I can imagine.”

“Hey, do you guys want me to take pictures of the ceremony, or just film it?”

“Film,” he says.

“Pictures,” I say.

Oh Christ. Whatever. It doesn’t matter. Hannibal has compromised for me more than enough.

“Film,” I correct.

“Okay,” Beverly says. “Hey, why didn’t you invite Abigail? I thought she of all people would be here.”

Hannibal and I exchange a look.

We both know and we hadn’t agreed. At least, not at first. I’d _wanted_ her to be here. So desperately it made my teeth ache. But then Hannibal reminded me that my affection for her often had me somewhat undone. And then on my own wedding week I’d be mooning over her rather than spending energy on my husband-to-be.

And that’s true. It’s damningly true.

And this wedding and this time -- it should be for us. Me and him. No-one else.

And just like no-one else, except Beverly and Jean, Abigail doesn’t know we’re getting married.  

So I shrug.

“She just couldn’t make it on such short notice.”

“That’s too bad.”

Jean waves.

“Ready when you guys are.”

“Ready?” I ask Hannibal.

“I am.”

“We’re ready, Jean.”

It feels so good to say that.

We decide on where to have the ceremony and then stand, just like we’d rehearsed at the house. Jean in front, Hannibal, tall and elegant, to my right. I hear Beverly scurrying around with the camera.

Jean begins.

“Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today . . .”

Her words flicker and vanish. The sun blinks on the river waves. The wind sighs through the trees and grass. The person I love most stands next to me. This day is already close enough to perfection.

“Now, for the recitation of the vows.”

“Oh, yes.”

“You do have vows, Graham?”

“Yes, we both do. Hannibal -- you go first. Like we discussed.”

“All right.”

Thank god he only unfolds a page. And it’s not even full. _How_. . . ?

Is this even Hannibal?

He looks at me, and then doesn’t, as though he’s shy. He reads:

“In the Beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God.”

He looks at me now, but there is shyness there still, as if I’m going to reject him.

“In the beginning, I was with you, and I was you, at the beginning of space and time, when this universe awakened. If some physicists are correct, then I will be with you at the end of all things, when space-time reverses, and everything is annihilated into a single point, and then born again.

“But in this life, I will protect and keep you as though you were myself -- you _are_ myself. I will cherish and adore you. I will give you all that I can give you. What is mine is now yours.

“And I will love you, in every way I am able.

“Lastly, I am here, always. Time and space saw to that long ago. But I am here, Will. I am here.”

He clears his throat and folds the paper away, resumes not looking at me.

Look at me, _dammit,_ I kiss him, whispering against his lips _I love you, I love you, I love you._

Jean clears her throat.

“Will,” Hannibal’s voice is soft. But he’s looking at me as I pull away.

Now I’m taking out my own folded sheet of paper, and I’ve got to stop shaking, I can do this, I practiced, I practiced with Winston a hundred times already -- I can do this.

He's waiting for me. I can do this. 

“Hannibal. My Hannibal. [ Who slept at my hospital bedside while I recovered ](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2221539/chapters/9810315). Who loved me in the worst days of my recovery, when I was impossible. Hannibal, my Hannibal, who makes me chicken soup when I’m sick, and who likes breakfast for dinner more than he lets on. Hannibal, my Hannibal, how I’ve seen you -- so much of you. And I love you. Every inch. Even the parts I don’t like so much.

“Hannibal, my Hannibal, this I vow to you:

“To cherish you.

“To respect you.

“To forgive you.

“To give you my whole heart.

“I promise to do these things for you, my Hannibal.”

I got all the words out and I didn’t shake too badly, I think.

He kisses me, chaste and quick, and whispers: “Thank you.”

The ring in my jacket pocket is impossibly small, and I’m not even sure it’s going to fit on Hannibal’s finger -- the silver with the black diamond. The opposite of mine, dark metal with a white diamond, which is in his pocket.

We had both our rings meticulously sized though, so there’s no reason it shouldn’t fit.

So here goes.

His fingers aren’t even cold or clammy when I put the ring on, neither is there a tremor.

“I give you this ring as a symbol of our covenant.”

My voice is just audible enough. It probably won’t come through on the wedding video, though.

Now it’s my turn, and holding my hand out, I’m shaking, and shaking, and shaking -- I can’t stop -- and Hannibal grasps my hand in his own.

“Will.”

Just like that I’m calmed, my whole body unwinding, from my bunching jaw to my taut Achilles heels. And my shaking, shaking hands.

He slides the ring on my finger.

“I give you this ring as a symbol of our covenant.”

There it is. My wedding ring. Which shows everyone _I belong to Hannibal._

“I now declare you husbands! You may kiss,” Jean says.

In the background, Beverly whoops.

Our first married kiss is slow, sweet. But I can’t help myself. I grab Hannibal’s butt and deepen the kiss. He makes a startled sound, parts his lips, lets me suck the tip of his tongue. I rub against him, until his cock thickens beneath his trousers. Hannibal moans a little.

“Oh _come on_ ,” Beverly says.

“Geee-eet it!” Jean says.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Why August 3? It’s the [anniversary of Twinkyempath starting](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/93708597723/during-the-times-either-hannibal-or-will-have-to). :)
> 
> The title is taken from "Dark Night of the Soul" by Saint John of the Cross, as [transposed by Loreena McKennitt](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fzHeT-Go4Zg). Her version is probably not the most accurate, but it is the most poetic. The poem speaks of love of man for God, but as it follows mystic tradition, it transforms the relationship between God and man into "man and man", and vaguely eroticizes said relationship.


	199. Ciao

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will writes to his readers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Also posted here.](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/148602837471/ciao-timestamp)

**August 7, 2016**

Ciao!

To say it has been quite a week would be like saying “golly gee, water sure is wet”. First off, readers, I have to tell you:

Hannibal and I got married.

Yes. Instead of going through the big traditional wedding we had originally planned, we instead scaled it down (vastly) and had a small, private ceremony on the banks of a river. (And yes, it’s a river I fish in, thanks for asking.) There was just Hannibal and me and two other people, and one of them was the officiant.

The ceremony itself was beautiful, my bridegroom was terribly handsome, and we had food and cake at my house afterwards, both of which were made by Hannibal. He’s told me to tell you his cake was divine, by the way. There was also some dancing, and Hannibal and I might have had our “first dance” to [ “Trip Through Your Wires” ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TKesAnqdq8w) which I think is vastly apropos, all things considered.

It’s possible, that, when Hannibal and I were alone, with things to clean up, and half undressed, we might have consummated our marriage on my porch. It might be that I was spread-legged, braced against the porch rail while Hannibal fucked me slowly, each thrust deep, hard, making me whimper for more, and finally he just gripped my hips and began thrusting fast, then faster, hitting that sweet little spot until I saw white and my whole body contracted as I came. He came a little later, I might add, from a very talented tongue and pair of lips.

So it was a good wedding.

Second off:

We are in Italy.

Florence, to be exact. No elopement would be complete without actually _eloping,_ so that’s precisely what we’ve done. We left the evening after the wedding and have been in Italy since landing on Thursday. I must admit the time change still makes me a bit bleary, but it’s hard to stay that way in Florence.

The city weaves a spell over you. The streets, at night, are cobbled sapphire and gold; the music of street buskers reverberates through the air; lights hung from pavilions glitter like stars; and the streets are crowded, crowded, especially at the height of tourist season, when there are floods of people. And the art -- you will truly never see such art.

The Uffizi is, for lack of better term (and Hannibal just sighs when I use it), an “artgasm”. It starts slow, dark and broody with medieval stuff and then begins building a bit of a tempo, getting a little more color and depth and then BAM it’s the Renaissance and Botticelli is knocking the wind clean out of you.  

Maybe not knocking. Botticelli makes you want to sit and sit and sit and sit and sit. And sit some more. Just gazing and getting your fill.

Speaking of sitting:

There’s Hannibal and myself, sitting and looking at “Primavera” by Botticelli. A nice little old lady took a picture of us because we were “so handsome together”. She then asked if it was okay. Hannibal said it was so long as she emailed it to us. And she did. (Her name was Sue, by the way.)

While the Uffizi is beautiful, I have to say my favorite place in Florence, as far as art goes, is the [ Basilica di Santa Croce ](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Basilica_of_Santa_Croce,_Florence). They have such exquisite frescos. If I can sound like Hannibal for a moment: I fleetingly yearn to live forever just to look at some of those frescos that long. This is how exquisite they are to me.

As you can well imagine, readers, I’m going to be quite busy, between stuffing my face with all the gorgeous food at the restaurants Hannibal takes me to, and all the touristy sight-seeing and revisiting the Uffizi and my beloved Santa Croce. We’ve other places to visit, as well: Venice, Pisa, Rome, Palermo, to name but a few. We’re going to Greece and Malta, as well.

We have so many adventures ahead of us, and we’ll be gone for awhile. So I won’t be blogging here for awhile, either. But don’t worry, readers. I will think of you with fondness throughout my travels, wherever they take me.

Ciao,

Will


	200. With All the World

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Forever, maybe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last chapter. It's been an honor and a pleasure, readers. 
> 
> This section goes well with [this song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=j2Wv5AvqzfE).
> 
> [Posted here on Tumblr.](http://twinkyempath.tumblr.com/post/148665482810/with-all-the-world-timestamp)

**August 8**

Blood. Warm as the copper dawn as we return to the condominium. Church-bells chime and doves flutter out of the eves and the city sighs awake, rosy as a spent lover, while we kiss our way up the stairs. You pin me to the wall, to ash-gray shadows, sliding your hand down my pants, stroking me. Blood still beneath my fingernails, and yours, and beneath our clothes, a fine patina. As you rub your thumb over my head, through the delicate slit, you say: _How, how long it’s been since we_ . . . I say: _Too long, too long,_ and moan.

* * *

A vigorous shower and lazy breakfast later and you vanish. You’re no-where where you ought to be. I look for you lounging at your usual cafe’s with a book; at the Uffizi, worshiping at the feet of Botticelli; bobbing through the streets like a cork on a stream, readily amused by the tourists and buskers and street vendors, and always on the lookout for an especially talented artist; and then just strolling along the river, watching the light play off the waters -- but you mostly do this in the evenings.

I even go to the train station, thinking you’re waiting for me, and then back to the condominium, thinking I’d missed you. And then I start to feel sick, to worry.

Finally I find you here, in _my_ place. The Basilica di Santa Croce. Seated in that one alcove, back away from most of the tourists, the one which looks deceptively dark and dim until you step inside the alcove, and then: an eruption of colors. Rose and gold, green and blue, red and orange. In the blood colored light of my favorite alcove, you appear, full of light and life, hunched over your sketchbook.

“Hannibal.”

“Will.”

You sound happy. Whenever you say my name you sound happy.

“I found you.”

“Did I need finding?”

“I looked for you in all your usual places. We’ve a train to catch.”

“In a few hours.”

_Scratch, scratch._

“I had to make this one last stop.”

I look into the the color all around me, flame-like and resplendent, and my heart aches. I won’t see this again for awhile -- maybe a long, long time.

I sneak a look at your sketch book, and you’ve drawn the alcove. Every detail, every shadow, every flickering beam of light. It’s perfect.

“It’s beautiful, Hannibal.”

“That’s good. I drew it for you. So you can have something to remember your favorite place by.”

I have pictures -- we both know that. I have pictures galore which will never do this place justice. Neither will memory. But this, this is different. This is about an emotional memory. About the sensations and feelings a place evoked -- and about using the alchemy of simple art -- to trap them. At least, for a little while.

“Thank you.”

I look at it and I can imagine the way the light actually plays over the stone, over the brightly colored frescoes, and the colors of the frescoes themselves burning through the dark.

It’s _perfect._

A kiss won’t quite do. So I hold you close, cradle you against me. And there is nothing else here: just you, the silence, and the light of the frescoes.

I don’t know how long we sit here, together. Forever, maybe.

I finally say: “I guess we should go pack.”

Your hand is warm in mine as we stand.

“Let us go, then,” you say.

**Author's Note:**

> [Now with a Russian translation](https://ficbook.net/readfic/4160627) courtesy of itsbloodmagic on Tumblr. :D

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Dancing in the Dark](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2254392) by [mresundance](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mresundance/pseuds/mresundance)
  * [Too Far (The Mongoose and the Snake) Twinkyempath Podfic](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2594678) by [breakneck](https://archiveofourown.org/users/breakneck/pseuds/breakneck)
  * [A Cup Shall Come Together: Dancing in the Dark (Twinkyempath Anthology Chapter 47) Podfic](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2619212) by [breakneck](https://archiveofourown.org/users/breakneck/pseuds/breakneck)
  * [Twinkyempath and Mindpalace2k15 Crossover](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2769209) by [mresundance](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mresundance/pseuds/mresundance)




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